' 

7     ^ 


IN    THE    DISTANCE. 


IN  THE   DISTANCE 


BY 


GEORGE   PARSONS   LATHROP 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1885 


lOAN  STACK 


Copyright,  1882, 
BY  GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     LOOKING  TOWARDS  A  MOUNTAIN  ...  7 

II.     THRKE  LOVERS    .......  18 

III.  "  ENTHUSIASM  " 30 

IV.  EDITF'S  BLUE-ROOM 39 

V.     ARCHDALE 5^ 

VI.    TRAGIC  MEMORIES 58 

VII.    SAVAGE'S. —AN  ODD  ENCOUNTER     .     .  68 

VIII.     RUDYARD 85 

IX.     A  DRIVE.  —  THE  DESERT.  —  FOOTSTEPS  97 

X.     WHISPERINGS  IN  THE  RAIN.     .     .     .     .  109 

XT.     A  CHILD  OF  NIGHT 128 

XTI.     WHITCOT  BEGINS  ENGINEERING     .     .     .  138 

XIII.  NOTHING  PARTICULAR;   HENCE,   IMPOR 

TANT  147 

XIV.  SUNDRY  ARRIVALS .  157 

XV.     IDYLLIC  DAYS K53 

XVI.     THE    TRIAL-SERMON,   AND   WHAT    FOL 
LOWED     180 

XVII.     A  FRIENDLY  ENEMY 195 

XVIII.     REINP^ORCEMENTS     ....  211 

XIX.      HOW  BURLEN   SURPRISED   ARCHDALE  220 


38 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX.  A  MEETING  IN  THE  DESERT  ....  232 

XXL  THE  CROWN  OF  MONADNOC    .     ...  247 

XXII.     TREACHERY 266 

XXIII.  MORTIS  FORMIDINE  ET  IRA    ....  280 

XXIV.  DISCOVERY  OF  A  MURDER      .     .     .     .  291 
XXV.     UNDER  ARREST 308 

XXVI.  PREPARING  FOR  A  STRUGGLE     .     .     .  318 

XXVII.     THE  CRISIS  IN  COURT 326 

XXVIII.  REUNION  AND  SEPARATION     ....  340 

XXIX.  CERTAINTIES  AND  UNCERTAINTIES  .     .  351 

XXX.  THE  RAINBOW  .  367 


THE  DISTANCE. 


LOOKING  TOWARDS    A   MOUNTAIN. 

THE  Cleft  —  a  rugged  gully  breaking  from  the 
roadside,  and  tearing  a  long,  descending  seam 
in  the  wooded  hill,  about  midway  of  the  route  from 
"Willowbridge  to  Marie  —  was  a  silent  place  always. 
The  hush  that  brooded  over  it  seemed  to  be  prepar 
ing  the  mind  for  events  of  importance.  As  if  it  were 
the  primeval  atmosphere,  it-was  charged  with  a  sense 
of  profound  beginnings. 

Beginnings  usually  imply  hope  ;  but  about  this  place 
there  was  something  sad,  austere,  and  minatoiy.  A 
new  life,  a  new  scheme,  a  new  passion,  even  in  the 
midst  of  its  hopefulness,  carries  with  it  a  shadow  of 
coming  struggle  and  the  pathos  of  possible  failure. 
It  was  this  shadow,  this  pathos,  which  seemed  to 
pervade  the  spot,  in  the  full  leafy  vigor  of  the  June 
day  to  which  we  now  look  back. 

What  gave  to  the  Cleft  its  most  suggestive  quality, 
aiding  the  sense  of  something  about  to  happen,  was 
the  glimpse  one  here  commanded  of  Monadnoc  moun- 


8  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

tain,  rising  in  New  Hampshire,  seventy  miles  to  the 
northwestward,  lonely,  vast,  and  mute,  as  if  it  were 
the  image  of  a  dim  futurity.  Seventy  miles  away,  — 
yet,  like  a  lofty  character  not  fully  comprehended  by 
those  who  are  nearest,  it  asserted  its  integrity,  sub 
lime  and  intact  when  seen  from  the  Cleft,  though 
invisible  at  many  places  within  easy  approach. 

In  the  universal  stillness  at  this  time,  the  day 
appeared  to  be  resting.  No  houses  were  to  be  seen  ; 
the  chirring  of  insects  in  the  fields  was  barely  notice 
able,  scattering  itself  like  a  mere  seed  of  sound  on 
the  air.  The  birds  had  come  to  a  long  rest  in  their 
plain-song  score  ;  the  very  trees,  in  the  pauses  of  the 
wind,  had  a  hushed  and  hermit-like  aspect.  Monad- 
noc  —  a  well  marked  but  faint  blue  shape,  making 
the  light  blue  sky  behind  it  look  still  paler,  and  seem 
ing,  in  its  mysterious  power,  almost  to  create  the 
distance  intervening  on  the  hither  side  —  took  the 
place  of  action  in  the  landscape.  It  impressed 
the  mind  like  a  deep  strain  of  music ;  yet  this  im 
pression  only  intensified  the  surrounding  silence. 
.  Throughout  the  wide  scene,  the  only  sign  of  stir 
ring  life  was  a  pure  white  butterfly  balancing  himself 
on  the  yellow  blossom  of  a  hawk  weed. 

Suddenly  the  creak  of  a  wheel  was  heard  ;  then, 
for  a  few  seconds,  nothing  more.  The  noise  was  soon 
repeated,  together  with  other  sounds  implying  that 
some  vehicle  was  in  motion  along  the  ascent  from 
Willowbridge.  Voices  came  up  from  that  direction, 
—  a  girl's  laugh,  with  sundry  heavier  masculine  notes 
dragging  after  it.  The  white  butterfly  winged  a  veer- 


LOOKING   TOWARDS  A   MOUNTAIN.        9 

ing  flight  and  left  the  hawkweed  a-tremble ;  at  the 
same  instant  there  started  up  from  the  grass-hung 
edge  of  the  gully  the  figure  of  a  young  man,  strong 
and  slender.  He  appeared  to  meditate  flight. 

But  again  that 'faint,  cheery  sound  of  voices  came 
floating  up  towards  him,  and  changed  his  purpose.  In 
such  a  solitude,  the  intrusion  of  human  tones,  though 
so  pleasantly  pitched,  was  almost  ghost-like  ;  but  the 
listener  knew  the  voices  :  the}r  were  those  of  persons 
whom  he  had  just  been  thinking  about. 

What  inner  meaning  did  you  catch,  Robert  Burlen, 
in  those  few  half-musical  sounds?  No  strain  of 
mournful  destiny,  no  signal  of  antipathy,  one  would 
say;  for  these  were  the  persons  you  were  almost 
wishing  }TOU  might  meet. 

Whatever  it  was,  something  inclined  the  young 
man  to  get  out  of  sight ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  escape 
completely.  The  fall  of  the  Cleft  was  too  steep  for 
him  to  go  that  way.  Looking  down  the  rounded  sur 
face  of  the  road,  he  saw  the  ears  of  two  horses  rising 
above  its  upward  slope  towards  him,  and  at  this  he 
made  haste  to  get  behind  some  black  birches  that 
fringed  the  fence  beside  the  ragged  cleft.  The  ears, 
with  a  jerk  forward,  were  developed  into  heads,  bring 
ing  into  view  behind  them  a  section  of  dull-red  roof 
belonging  to  a  stage-coach.  In  like  manner  the 
driver  was  enlarged  from  a  dingy  bust  of  himself 
into  a  full-length  figure,  slighth'  doubled  up  as  to  his 
knees,  from  his  position  on  the  box ;  and  with  him 
appeared  three  young  people,  —  Miss  Edith  Arch- 
dale,  daughter  of  the  theological  professor  of  that 


10  IN    THE  DISTANCE. 

name  in  the  college  at  Marie  ;  Mr.  Ravling,  lawyer ; 
and  Richard  Whitcot,  civil  engineer. 

Tired  and  struggling  horses,  a  dusty  old  coach, 
and  four  figures  on  the  top  of  it,  —  these  need  not,  it 
should  seem,  strike  the  young  man  as  fraught  with 
any  special  importance  or  romantic  potency.  Yet  it 
was  a  fact  of  some  significance  that  he  now  saw  those 
four  individuals  for  the  first  time  together,  and  three 
of  them  had  just  held  a  place  in  his  revery.  Look 
ing  out  from  his  birch  covert  at  the  coach  with  its 
passengers,  he  was  really  confronting  in  these  objects 
the  elements  of  his  future. 

The  wheels  of  the  GENERAL  SCOTT  (so  the  coach 
was  inscribed  in  large  letters  on  its  side)  paused 
gratefully  at  the  crest  of  the  hill,  close  by  a  watering- 
trough  on  the  inner  side  of  the  road. 

"  How  good  it  is  to  see  the  mountain  again !  " 
cried  Miss  Archdale,  with  a  spontaneity  that  made 
the  three  }'oung  men  who  heard  her  think  it  surpris 
ingly  well  worth  while  to  be  in  a  position  to  inspect 
that  venerable  piece  of  geolog3T. 

Ravling  and  Whitcot  turned  their  attention  to 
Monadnoc  with  a  readiness  bordering  on  the  obsequi 
ous.  It  might  have  been  thought  that  each  believed 
he  could  come  to  some  private  understanding  with 
the  mountain  to  favor  himself  and  choke  off  the  other, 
in  any  contemplated  advances  towards  the  young 
lady  who  had  spoken. 

The  Iaw3'cr,  whose  pride  it  was  to  appear  as  little 
like  a  lawyer  as  possible  (an  endeavor  in  which  he 
met  with  gratifying  success),  ruffled  his  short,  dark, 


LOOKING   TOWARDS  A   MOUNTAIN.      H 

outward-carving  beard  with  one  hand.  "  How  much 
pleasure  you  will  get  out  of  it  when  you  're  up  there 
this  summer,"  he  said  rather  moodily.  "I  wish  I 
were  going  to  get  awa}',  like  the  rest  of  you." 

"You're  really  not  going  to  take  a  vacation, 
then?"  Whitcot  inquired,  with  undue  cheerfulness. 
The  light-gray  clothes  which  he  affected  gave  him 
at  any  time  an  air  of  fresh  expansiveness ;  but  in 
making  this  inference  he  grew  more  than  usually 
elastic. 

Ravling  continued  to  ruffle  his  beard,  and  made 
no  answer.  To  soothe  him,  Miss  Archdale  delivered 
a  few  words  of  formal  regret,  which  mortified  him  by 
their  coldness.  She  went  on  presently  with  more 
freedom:  "Are  you  sure,  Mr.  Ravling,  that  it's 
wise,  even  looking  at  it  for  self-interest,  to  slave  so 
steadily  at  your  profession?  When  you  look  at  that 
mountain,  far  off  as  it  is,  you  find  the  simple  sight  of 
it  refreshing;  don't  you?"  (Whitcot,  though  not  ap 
pealed  to,  here  tried  another  glance  at  Monadnoc ; 
but,  not  finding  it  especially  refreshing,  gave  it  up 
again.)  "  So  I  should  think,"  Edith  went  on  to 
Ravling,  "  that  for  the  good  of  your  work  —  " 

He  interrupted,  rather  bitterly  :  "  Don't  appeal  to 
my  self-interest,  at  any  rate,  Miss  Archdale.  I'm 
well  enough  furnished  -with  motives  of  that  kind, 
don't  you  think?  If  you'd  only  try  me,"  he  went 
on,  smiling  oddly,  "  with  some  higher  motive  !  See 
if  I  can't  rise  to  it  —  at  least  part  way." 

It  is  to  be  hoped  no  one  is  going  to  sum  up  Ravling 
by  this  curt  speech,  for  it  hardly  did  him  justice. 


12  IN   THE   DISTANCE. 

1 '  What  motive  ?  "  asked  Edith,  gayly.  ' '  What  shall 
I  try?  It's  terribly  perplexing.  But  if  }TOU  want  a 
high  one,  Monadnoc  itself  I  should  think  would  do." 
For  all  this,  she  was  displeased  with  him.  Fearing, 
too,  that  she  had  gone  too  near  suggesting  a  wish  for 
his  company  during  the  summer,  she  withdrew  her 
notice  from  him,  and  fixed  it  once  more  on  that  su 
preme  mountain  slope  which  closed  in  the  vista. 
She  longed  to  be  close  under  it,  at  once :  certainly 
not  an  unpleasant  longing ;  yet  she  blamed  Ravling 
for  prompting  it  in  her. 

Meanwhile  Marshall  Stubbs,  the  driver,  dismount 
ing  to  water  the  horses,  had  thrown  the  reins  to 
Whitcot.  "  Pretty  hot  day,"  observed  that  young 
gentleman,  as  if  it  did  not  much  concern  him,  but 
might  interest  Stubbs.  He  then  scowled  parentheti 
cally  at  Ravling. 

"  Starts  the  juice  out  some,"  admitted  Stubbs,  un- 
checking  his  lean  but  sweating  steeds. 

Whitcot  smiled  to  himself,  and  scanned  the  old 
man  to  see  if  he  also  gave  signs  of  "juice."  He 
discovered  none.  The  driver,  with  his  hard  red-and- 
tan  face,  was  as  diy  and  impermeable  as  his  stage. 
It  struck  Whitcot  that  Stubbs  would  have  looked 
upon  perspiration  as  an  unwarrantable  extravagance. 
After  another  quick  glance  of  disapproval  at  Ravling, 
he  resumed  :  "  Rather  a  lucky  thing  that  you  Ve  got 
this  trough  at  the  top  of  such  a  hard  hill." 

"Ain't  much  luck  about  it,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Why,  you  know  }'oung  Burlen  down  at  the  college, 
don't  you?  It's  his  doing:  he  got  it  up."  Stubbs 


LOOKING    TOWARDS  A   MOUNTAIN.      13 

said  this  as  if  he  were  reciting  a  covert  injury  done 
to  himself, 

"  Oh,  yes  :  Burlen  !  So  it  was  ;  I  think  I  was  told 
before.  Thoughtful  of  him,  though,  was  n't  it?  Idea 
was  to  have  people  stop,  I  suppose,  where  they  could 
see  this  view." 

"  Exactly  what  I  s'posed,"  said  Stubbs,  intimating 
by  his  tone  that  the  thoughtful  act  had  been  an  un 
worthy  piece  of  hypocrisy.  During  the  entire  halt 
he  carefully  avoided  looking  off  at  the  mountain.  It 
was  incumbent  on  him  to  show  that  one  person  at 
least  could  not  be  inveigled  into  admiring  it. 

Whitcot  was  reflecting  with  a  certain  satisfaction 
on  Stubbs's  obvious  hostility  to  Burlen,  when  a  dis 
covery  startled  him.  "Hullo!"  he  cried,  with  a 
harshness  that  may  have  been  only  the  jarring  of 
any  sudden  exclamation  in  a  nook  so  calm.  ' i  There 's 
Burlen  himself!  Is  n't  that  you,  Burlen  ?  Come  out 
and  accept  my  apology  if  I  'm  mistaken." 

Every  one  looked  around  towards  the  birches,  and 
Burlen  came  forward  with  a  smile :  a  little  abashed 
at  being  found  in  hiding,  so  that  his  brown  face 
colored  up  more  than  usual ;  but  with  a  swift,  hon 
est  light  in  his  eyes,  and  a  readiness  of  movement 
showing  that  he  meant  to  make  the  best  of  it.  A 
slight  laugh  escaped  him.  He  had  n't  said  a  word, 
and  yet  they  all  felt  that  he  had  greeted  them 
sufficient!}7, 

"Well,  you  might  have  found  an  easier  walk  for 
such  a  hot  day,  Mr.  Burlen,"  said  Edith.  "But  I 
suppose  you've  found  your  reward."  She  made  a 


14  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

brief,  light  gesture  towards  the  long  valley  and  the 
far-off  looming  mountain. 

"Yes,  I've  found  my  reward,"  Burlen  answered, 
with  a  double  meaning  that  roused  the  ire  of  the  two 
young  men  on  the  coach.  He  smiled.  It  was  not 
the  smile  of  a  saint  or  an  ascetic,  though  it  was  by 
no  means  rollicking.  A  roguish  glimmer  stole  over 
his  strong,  repressed  lips  and  small  chin,  while  his 
eyes  pleaded  for  lenienc}'  if  he  had  said  anj'tlring  too 
pointed.  It  is  safe  to  assume  that  Edith  forgave 
him. 

"Lucky  accident  3*011  should  meet  us  —  or  we 
you,"  remarked  Whitcot,  without  much  ardor. 

"Yes — yes."  Burlen  always  spoke  too  quicklj-. 
He  had  to  pause  an  instant.  "  The  fact  is,  I  walked 
this  way  unconsciously,  and  was  sitting  here  thinking, 
when  I  —  I  heard  you.  Upon  my  word,  it  startled 
me  so  I  tried  to  get  out  of  the  way.  I  don't  know 
what  made  me."  He  looked  at  them  all  in  child-like 
surprise  at  himself. 

"I'm  sorry  3*011  were  n't  with  us  ;  we  've  had  the 
most  lovely  drive  !  "  said  Edith,  impulsively. 

"You  walked?"  Ravling  inquired,  adding  with 
legal  adroitness  :  "  Then  of  course  you  've  got  to  go 
back  all  the  way  on  foot.  Well,  I  don't  envy  you  !  " 

"  Sorry  there  is  n't  room  here,"  said  Whitcot,  fol 
lowing  him  up. 

Miss  Archdale  flushed  a  little.  Burlen  was  eying 
the  coach,  especially  the  top  in  her  neighborhood. 

Then  there  occurred  a  mysterious  dispensation. 
Whitcot  made  no  move  to  enlarge  the  available 


LOOKING   TOWARDS  A   MOUNTAIN.      15 

space ;  a  couple  of  mail-bags  occupied  the  lower 
bench  next  to  Stubbs,  and  Ravling  contrived  to  be 
too  abstracted  to  notice  that  anything  was  going  on. 
But  in  spite  of  these  facts  a  space  silently,  unac 
countably  opened  between  Edith  and  Ravling,  and 
with  an  air  of  casual  surprise  she  said:  "If  you 
really  want  to  get  on,  Mr.  Burlen,  I'm  sure  we  can 
make  room." 

The  student  of  theolog}^  straightway  reconciled 
faith  with  science,  by  climbing  up  and  occupying  the 
seat  which  to  the  eye  of  reason  alone  looked  impos 
sible  ;  whereupon  Whitcot,  obedient  to  ctynamic  laws, 
had  to  slide  down  and  arrange  himself  on  the  mail- 
bags. 

"  Is  n't  it  wonderful?  "  said  Edith,  unconsciously  ; 
but  she  explained  herself  by  continuing  —  "that 
Monad  noc  should  always  impress  me  so  strongly, 
man}'  times  as  I've  seen  it?  What  do  you  suppose 
makes  it?" 

When  Burlen  was  happy,  a  warm,  generous  light 
filled  his  tender,  brown  eyes,  as  if  the  spirit  within 
him  were  trying  to  communicate  its  brightness  to 
others.  This  was  the  case  now,  as  he  answered. 
"  I  find  the  same  thing  with  myself,"  he  said  ;  "  and 
so  I  was  thinking  of  it  a  little  while  ago,  here.  I 
wonder  if  you  remember  that  essay  of  Hazlitt's  :  at 
an}T  rate,  one  sentence  from  it  came  into  my  mind. 
It 's  like  this :  '  Passion  is  lord  of  infinite  space,  and 
distant  objects  please  because  they  border  on  its 
confines.'  That's  what  he  says.  So  a  mountain  on 
the  horizon  excites  strong  feeling  and  fancies  that 


16  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

like  to  go  roaming  through  space.  It  seems  to  Lave 
got  to  the  goal  before  them,  and  leads  them  on. 
Is  n't  there  something  in  that?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  cried  the  girl.  "  It 's  the  truth  itself. 
Such  an  insight  as  that  is  as  beautiful  as  the  thing 
that  suggested  it." 

There  was  silence  among  them  for  an  instant. 

"  I  should  prefer  to  have  it  stated  more  simply," 
said  Whitcot,  with  an  air  of  immense  intellectual 
exertion. 

"I  agree  with  you,  Miss  Archdale,"  Ravling  an 
nounced,  "that  it's  a  charming  explanation.  I'm 
not  certain,  though,  that  it  suffices.  But  b}'  the 
way,  Burlen,  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  fall  into  that 
modern  trick  of  saying  your  best  things  in  other 
men's  words.  It  will  play  the  deuce  with  your  origi 
nality  in  the  pulpit,  3-011  know.  The  popular  preach 
ers  now-a-days  are  always  calming  their  language 
down  to  a  glassy  level,  and  then  the}'  '  skip '  a  lot  of 
nice  rounded  quotations  over  the  surface,  to  make  a 
splash  ;  but  however  amusing  it  may  be,  it  is  n't  dig 
nified,  you  know." 

Burlen  looked  serious,  apparently  willing  to  admit 
that  he  might  fall  juitQ  error.  But  before  he  had  said 
anything,  Stubbs,  who  had  been  prowling  along  the 
edge  of  the  gully,  came  back  declaring  in  a  loud 
voice:  "Guess  shall  have  to  talk  to  County  Com 
missioners  a  mite  'bout  this  hole.  'Tain't  hardly 
safe.  There  'd  ought  to  be  a  stone  wall  right  along 
and  some  trees  planted  un'neath,  to  hold  the  soil. 
Guess  that  \\  spoil  the  show  ;  hoy?  "  lie  addressed 


LOOKING   TOWARDS  A    MOUNTAIN.      17 

himself  with  gloomy  playfulness  to  Burlen,  as  the 
one  most  likely  to  suffer  —  and  deservedly  —  from 
any  injuiy  to  the  view. 

Then  with  a  leap  he  took  his  seat  and  the  reins. 
The  GENERAL  SCOTT  creaked,  rattled,  and  started  on 
its  way.  In  a  moment  or  two  it  was  on  the  descent 
to  Marie.  A  departing  whip-crack  resounded ;  the 
noise  of  hoofs  grew  more  distant ;  then  a  light  dust- 
cloud  raised  by  the  coach  drifted  away,  and  stillness 
settled  upon  the  hill  again.  The  elements  of  Bur- 
len's  future  had  met  him,  taken  him  up  and  borne 
him  along ;  leaving  the  silence  and  mystery  of  the 
Cleft  to  germinate  new  episodes. 


18  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


II. 


THREE  LOVERS. 

THE  ride  to  Willowbridge  had  at  first  been  con 
templated  by  Edith  alone. 

A  friend  of  hers,  Miss  Viola  Welsted,  of  Boston, 
had  arrived  at  the  village  of  the  willows  by  a  route 
which  did  not  take  her  through  Marie  ;  and  as  Edith 
was  going  away  in  a  few  days  to  spend  the  vacation 
near  Monadnoc,  the  two  girls  were  overpowered  by 
a  whirlwind  of  eagerness  to  see  each  other.  They 
hadn't  anything  very  particular  to  impart;  but 
women  weigh  their  mutual  relations  with  such  senti 
mental  scrupulousness  —  leaving  only  a  small  residu 
um  of  feeling  in  regard  to  the  pangs  they  may  inflict 
in  their  relations  with  men  —  that  the  obligation  upon 
these  two  to  effect  a  meeting  appeared  to  be  a  sacred 
one. 

The  3'oung  men,  by  attaching  themselves  to  this 
solemn  mission,  instantly  gave  it  a  worldly,  frivolous, 
and  amatory  turn. 

Ravling  had  come  from  Boston  to  look  up  the 
title  to  some  lands  near  Marie,  as  he  explained  ;  an 
errand  which  required  an  astonishingly  protracted 
sta}T,  without  in  the  least  preventing  him  from  seeing 
a  good  deal  of  Edith.  So,  when  he  heard  she  was 
going  over  to  Willowbridge,  he  remembered  that  he 


THREE  LOVERS.  19 

ought  to  inquire  about  rooms  there  for  his  aunt,  — 
"Mrs.  Withers,  you  know,"  he  specified.  "  I  ex 
pect  her  to  leave  me  most  of  her  money,  and  that 
makes  me  veiy  attentive." 

In  saying  this  he  gratified  an  eccentric  fondness 
for  underrating  his  own  motives,  familiar  to  his 
friends. 

"I  wonder,  then,"  said  Edith,  taking  up  the  bitter 
jest,  "that  she  dares  to  let  you  choose  a  place  for 
her  to  live  in." 

"It  is  surprising,"  Ravling  answered,  with  pre 
tended  satisfaction.  "  But  then,  it's  only  for  a  few 
weeks.  And  she  puts  more  confidence  in  me  than 
you  do,  I'm  afraid." 

Composure  was  a  strong  characteristic  in  Miss 
Archdale,  but  it  failed  her  a  little  as  she  replied : 
"  You  have  no  reason  to  say  that  of  me."  Which 
referred  to  the  fact  that,  having  once  rejected  the 
lawyer  as  a  lover,  she  had  retained  him  as  a  friend. 
"But  there  is  a  better  reason  for  your  going  to 
Willowbridge,"  she  resumed.  "You  know  Viola 
Welsted,  don't  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes."     Ravling  wrinkled  his  forehead. 

"  Of  course.  I  remember  she  has  often  spoken  of 
you." 

The  young  man's  interest  increased.  "  Has  she 
ever  said  any  good  of  me?"  he  laughingly  asked. 

"  As  to  that  I  don't  think  I  could  say  positively. " 
Edith  laughed,  too,  smoothing  her  dress  absently 
with  her  hand  and  looking  away.  "But  I  cer 
tainly  got  the  idea  that  you  were  on  good  terms,  — 
unusually  good." 


20  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"Perhaps  }TOU  think  I  have  a  hungry  vanit}r,"  he 
began  more  seriously.  "  That  is  n't  it,  but  I  'm  tor 
mented  by  a  fear.  I  don't  know  how  to  express  it. 
Yes  I  do,  though.  I  wonder  sometimes  whether  I  'm 
entirely  selfish.  That's  the  fear  I  mean.  But  then 
it  seems  to  me  there 's  a  kind  of  selfishness  in  people 
with  professedly  great  aims,  too."  It  was  tolerably 
clear  to  Edith  that  he  had  Burlen  in  mind.  "  They 
take  or  reject  what  they  want,  no  matter  what  the 
cost  may  be  to  others ;  yet  they  're  not  blamed  for 
it.  Now  I  don't  know  that  I  have  an}r  great  aim  in 
the  world  that  would  pass  for  such  ;  but  I  'm  trying 
to  do  my  best.  There  appears  to  be  a  place  for  me, 
and  I  want  to  fill  it  to  the  best  advantage.  For  that 
I  need  a  number  of  things,  —  knowledge,  friends,  a 
quantity  of  money ;  in  fact  all  the  things  that  give 
power.  Because  I  bend  my  energies  to  getting 
these,  people  think  me  selfish;  and  it's  natural 
enough  that  I  should  have  got  to  thinking  myself 
so  in  consequence." 

It  was  unusual  for  him  to  speak  so  much  at 
length  about  himself.  Edith's  carelessly  distant 
manner  gave  place  to  a  more  earnest  one  as  she 
listened.  Her  chin  sank  a  trifle,  bringing  her  face 
forward  in  a  level,  concentrated  gaze.  "  Those  peo 
ple  with  great  aims  that  you  speak  of,"  she  asked  — 
"  does  n't  it  make  all  the  difference  that  they  have  a 
high  purpose?" 

"  Perhaps,"  he  assented  slowly.  "Yet  it's  hard 
to  say  why  the  same  desire  on  the  part  of  two  con 
scientious  people  can  be  selfish  in  one  and  unselfish 
in  the  other." 


THREE  LOVERS.  21 

"  What  desire  ?"  she  was  surprised  into  demand 
ing. 

Ravling  waited.  Then,  "It  might  be  hard,"  said 
he,  "to  find  a  suitable  example."  They  were  both 
aware,  however,  that  the  desire  he  referred  to  was 
that  which  Buiien  and  himself  were  supposed  to 
share, — of  winning  Edith.  She  drew  back;  —  a 
scarcely  perceptible  change  of  attitude,  but  it  im 
mediately  put  a  barrier  between  them.  "But  sup 
pose,"  Ravling  continued,  "that  one  is  born  without 
the  capacity  for  grand  purposes  ?  " 

"I  wonder  if  that's  possible,"  she  mused.  They 
were  already  beginning  to  speak  more  to  themselves 
than  to  one  another.  "  Well,  if  one  were  like  that 
—  ah,  here  is  Mr.  Burlen  !  " 

The  lawyer  rose  and  shook  hands  with  the  student 
as  he  entered.  He  remained  standing,  with  an  inde 
terminate  annoyance  in  his  manner,  and  holding  his 
hat. 

It  turned  out  that  Burlen  could  not  go  with  them, 
as  had  been  proposed,  to  Willowbridge.  He  was 
obliged  to  give  the  day  to  finishing  and  memorizing 
the  address  which  he  was  to  deliver  on  graduating. 

"  What's  your  subject?"  inquired  Ravling,  with  a 
fatigued  assumption  of  politeness. 

"  Enthusiasm,"  answered  Burlen,  very  gravely  ; 
and  then  he  directed  a  glance  at  Edith,  as  if  to  find 
out  how  she  took  the  announcement. 

"A  broad  field,"  murmured  the  other  man,  ab 
stractedly,  as  he  gazed  out  into  the  village  street, 
through  the  windows.  He  was  saying  to  himself, 


22  IN  THE   DISTANCE. 

"  This  fellow 's  like  all  undergraduates.     He  thinks 
it  in  the  last  degree  important." 

"That's  good!"  exclaimed  Edith.  "You'll 
have  to  put  a  great  deal  of  that  quality  into  the 
essay  ;  but  then  it's  natural  to  you,  is  n't  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Burlen.  "  Am  I  an  enthu 
siast?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  3-011  are." 

"At  any  rate  I'm  not  cynical,"  he  affirmed,  look 
ing  at  the  lawyer.  Possibly  there  was  some  antago 
nism  in  his  look.  "I  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
accomplishing  good  aims." 

"You're  young,  too,"  Ravling  vouchsafed  equiv 
ocally. 

"  Yes,  and  I  hope  to  remain  so,"  was  the  retort. 
Suspecting  that  he  had  given  offence,  Ravling  took 
his  leave,  and  Burlen  likewise  went  away  a  moment 
after. 

As  for  Whitcot,  his  duties  were  at  no  time  very 
rigorous.  Nominally  he  was  a  civil  engineer,  a  pro 
fession  which,  in  its  earliest  stages,  has  often  been 
noticed  to  consist  in  travelling  promiscuously,  taking 
long  and  agreeable  vacations,  eating  heartily,  wear 
ing  the  handiwork  of  fashionable  tailors,  smoking 
expensive  cigars,  and  doing  the  civil  —  while  some 
one  else  does  the  engineering.  It  was,  therefore, 
directly  in  the  line  of  his  work  to  take  a  box-seat 
on  the  GENERAL  SCOTT  at  the  same  time  that  Edith 
did  so. 

Burlen  might  without  much  difficulty  have  neg 
lected  the  work  of  which  he  had  made  an  excuse  ; 


THREE  LOVERS.  23 

but  it  struck  him  that  the  other  two  had  already 
overdone  matters  a  little,  and  he  preferred  not  to 
put  himself  in  the  same  position.  When  they  were 
gone,  he  went  to  his  barren-looking  room  in  the  dor 
mitory,  glanced  over  his  manuscript  correctively, 
and  began  drilling  himself  in  recitation  and  appro 
priate  gestures.  But  the  picture  of  Edith  absent 
with  Ravling  and  Whiteot  kept  coming  between  him 
and  his  imaginar}'  audience.  It  annoyed  him  to 
think  that  he  had  so  easily  given  his  rivals  an  advan 
tage,  by  keeping  in  the  background.  "Bah!  what 
rubbish  this  is !  "  he  exclaimed,  breaking  off  in  the 
midst  of  a  flowery  sentence.  "  Why  should  I  make 
a  regulation  puppet  of  nryself  ?  " 

He  walked  swiftly  across  the  room,  seized  the 
manuscript  from  the  table,  tore  some  of  the  sheets  in 
two,  and  flung  the  whole  roll  into  a  corner. 

The  flutter  of  the  outraged  sermon-paper  as  it  fell 
had  scarcely  ceased,  before  he  brought  himself  up 
sharply  with  disgust  at  his  slight  irascibility. 

"This  is  ungoverned  anger,"  he  said  to  himself 
in  a  cold  tone,  and  with  a  severity  which  would  have 
surprised  any  one  hearing  him.  Leaving  the  room, 
he  went  on  that  long  walk  which  ended  by  bringing 
him  to  the  Cleft ;  and  there  he  meditated  until  roused 
by  the  returning  coach. 

While  he  sat  musing,  Whiteot  and  Ravling  had 
had  him  in  their  thoughts.  After  leaving  Edith  at 
Miss  Welsted's  lodging  door,  they  had  started  on  a 
stroll  together  through  the  Willowbridge  woods. 

"Doesn't  it  strike  you  as  rather  a  queer  plan," 


94  W   THE  DISTANCE. 

asked  the  engineer,  "  young  Burlen  going  up  to  Sav 
age's  Mills  to  board  at  the  same  place  with  Miss 
Archdale  and  her  aunt,  this  summer?" 

"  Probably  I  should  n't  think  so  if  I  were  Burlen." 

"Oh!  I  see  you're  not  quite  so  much  interested 
in  that  quarter  as  I  thought." 

"  Are  3rou  sure?  "  interposed  Ravling. 

4 'You  certainly  intimate,"  Whitcot  returned,  "that 
it's  all  one  to  }'ou  whether  this  preacher-boy  —  or 
boy-preacher —  is  near  her  or  not." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  simply  think  he  has  a  right  to  go 
where  he  pleases  ;  arid  as  the}'  have  n't  any  minister 
settled  over  one  of  their  churches  up  there,  it's 
proper  enough  that  he  should  go  and  be  sampled." 

"  But  he  needn't  be  at  the  same  house  with  Miss 
Archdale,"  objected  the  other.  "  It  is  n't  a  fair  thing." 

"  One  would  suppose,"  said  Ravling,  smiling  un 
der  his  glossy  beard,  "  that  you  were  the  selfish  one, 
instead  of  me.  I  'm  willing  to  give  Burlen  all  the 
chances  he  can  get.  /  should  want  them  all  if  I 
were  in  his  place.  But  as  to  fairness,  you  know  no 
one  could  start  on  equal  terms  with  him.  He  has 
been  constantly  near  Miss  Archdale  for  three  years, 
and  is  a  special  favorite  with  her  father." 

"Why  he  should  be  is  more  than  I  can  fathom," 
said  Whitcot,  pettishly.  "  He 's  a  man  of  no  origin. 
Half  the  people  in  Marie  are  afraid  to  have  much 
to  do  with  him,  because  they  suspect  something  dis 
creditable  in  his  life." 

"  There's  a  deep  shadow  of  some  kind  on  him,  I 
know,"  Ravling  confessed.  "That  isn't  for  me  to 


THREE  LOVERS.  25 

explain.  But  Archdale  is  a  theoretical  old  gentle 
man.  I  think  he  's  taken  Burlen  under  his  protec 
tion  from  a  sense  of  duty,  just  because  the  boy  has 
no  other  friends." 

"  Boy  !  I  wish  he  were,"  muttered  the  young  man 
in  the  gra}'  suit.  44  I  insist  it's  unreasonable  that  a 
girl  like  that  should  be  thrown  with  him,  at  the  risk 
of  entangling  herself." 

Ravling  turned  on  him  with  exasperation.  "  Miss 
Archdale,"  he  said  —  "if  we  are  speaking  of  her  — 
may  be  trusted  to  meet  the  requirements  of  the  sit 
uation.  And  my  opinion  is  that  she  would  be  as 
happy  if  she  chose  to  marry  a  young  country  parson 
—  well,  perhaps  not  so  happ}T,  but  certainly  as  dig 
nified —  as  if  she  were  to  take  a  brilliant  place  in 
society,  for  which  she  's  also  fitted." 

It  was  unusual  that  two  3'oung  men  devoted  to  the 
same  woman  should  stand  there  discussing  the  fact 
indirectly,  by  talking  over  their  common  rival.  But 
people  are  in  the  habit  of  doing  unusual  things. 
Having  now  got  enough  of  it,  they  went  back  to  find 
Edith. 

She,  meanwhile,  had  been  deeply  absorbed. 

"Dear,  dear  Viola !" 

44  Edith,  it's  an  age  since  I've  seen  you." 

This  was  the  not  unusual  opening  of  the  talk  be 
tween  the  two  girls. 

44  My  dear,  I  want  you  to  come  over  to  Marie." 

44  Impossible,  Edith." 

44  But  we're  to  have  a  Commencement  party. 
Dick  Whitcot,  my  old  schoolfellow,  has  got  back 


26  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

from  German)',  and  3*011  must  see  him.  Besides,  Mr. 
Ilavling  's  going  to  be  there." 

"Ravling?  Good  gracious!  he's  everywhere, — 
positively  everywhere ! " 

"  Are  you  tired  of  him?  "  Edith  asked.  "  I  don't 
believe  he  's  tired  of  you."  She  took  hold  of  Viola's 
necklace  and  began  to  examine  it  minutely. 

"  Don't  chatter,"  said  Miss  Viola,  airily.  "  How 
can  }*ou  possibly  know  whether  he  's  tired  of  me  or 
not?" 

"  I  don't,"  said  her  friend. 

Then  they  unexpectedly  kissed  each  other,  as  if 
some  disclosure  of  great  and  tender  importance  had 
passed  between  them.  "  I  don't  care,"  asserted 
Miss  Viola  somewhat  vaguely :  "you're  perfectly 
charming." 

"  And  can't  you  really  come  to  the  party?"  Edith 
inquired  again,  after  a  pause.  "  M)r  aunt  wants 
you  to." 

"  Do  give  my  love  to  Mrs.  Savland,"  was  the 
answer.  "No,  I  don't  believe  I  possibly  can.  I 
have  some  reading  to  do  :  I  'm  deep  in  my  German." 

"Are  you  writing  anything?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  a  word  about  it  at  present," 
Miss  Viola  answered,  with  rnystciy.  She  was  not 
an  authoress,  but  it  was  supposed  by  her  friends,  as 
it  is  of  so  many  Boston  girls,  that  she  might  become 
one.  They  were  anxious  to  be  apprised  of  it  at  the 
earliest  moment,  —  possibly  for  fear  that  it  would 
otherwise  never  be  known.  She  had  the  customary 
appurtenance  of  a  father  and  mother  ;  but  they  knew 


THREE   LOVERS.  27 

their  place,  and  allowed  her  to  go  away  in  summer 
to  where  she  could  find  solitude  and  receive  the 
influences  of  Nature. 

When  the  young  men  returned,  and  the  final  par 
oxysm  of  parting  was  in  progress  :  "  I  shall  see  you 
Thursday,  then,"  said  Viola.  Thursday  was  the  day 
fixed  for  the  party. 

"Yes,  dear;  I'm  so  glad  you're  coming,"  said 
Edith,  accepting  the  decision  instantly  as  if  it  had 
been  made  for  hours.  "You'll  stay  all  night  with 
us,  of  course." 

Somehow,  she  herself  during  the  whole  conversa 
tion  had  n't  once  mentioned  Burlen. 

It  was  almost  a  part  of  the  curriculum  at  Made 
for  undergraduates  to  entertain  a  more  or  less  hope 
less  passion  for  Archdale's  daughter.  Hence  it  was 
not  surprising  that  she  should  be  serenely  aware  of 
the  admiration  which  Burlen  and  Whitcot  felt  for 
her.  Ravling,  though  she  had  met  him  for  the  first 
time  during  her  visit  in  Boston  the  previous  winter, 
had  already  committed  himself.  Nevertheless,  the 
situation  annoyed  her  at  times.  She  never  took  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Savland,  into  her  confidence,  and  being 
motherless  had  no  one  else  to  consult.  As  }ret, 
however,  she  was  not  considering  possibilities  of 
choice  between  her  three  lovers.  Like  all  young 
people  she  saw  her  life  far  off,  in  advance,  notwith 
standing  the  intensity  of  every  present  feeling ;  but 
whatever  her  future  was  to  be,  she  felt  that  it  would 
be  something  firm  and  unalterable,  —  dim  with  dis 
tance  now,  like  Monadnoc,  but  as  solid  when  she 


28  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

should  reach  it  as  the  mountain  itself.  Therefore 
she  was  in  no  haste  to  fix  it  irrevocably. 

Whitcot,  who  had  always  lived  in  Marie  and  had 
been  to  school  with  her,  had  a  kind  of  local  advan 
tage  in  her  mind.  He  was  not  in  himself  a  novelty, 
but  it  was  a  novelty  to  find  the  boy  who  had  lately 
teased  her  grown  into  a  man,  returning  from  foreign 
studies  in  garments  of  a  dimly  remote  origin,  with  a 
new  blond  mustache  waving  boldly  above  his  lips  and 
an  insidious  attachment  for  her  in  his  heart.  Rav- 
ling,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not  familiar ;  and  a  de 
velopment  of  devotion  in  his  quarter,  so  opposite  to 
that  of  Whitcot,  was  so  unexpected  that  it  pressed  its 
way  gently  into  her  moods  of  absent  half-thoughts, 
unwilling  though  she  was  to  figure  as  a  possible 
thwarter  of  poor  Viola's  sentiment  for  him.  Burlcn's 
hold  upon  her  fancy  came  from  a  blending  of  the 
near  and  the  distant.  His  presence  was  an  accus 
tomed  thing,  from  his  having  been  three  j'ears  in  the 
college ;  yet  he  was  a  stranger,  too.  She  knew  less 
of  his  history  than  she  did  of  Ravling's.  But  it  was 
an  interesting  point  about  him  that,  although  he  was 
an  undergraduate,  she  had  noticed  him. 

None  of  the  three  felt  any  confidence  as  to  his 
chances,  excepting  Whitcot.  He  was  pleased  at 
finding  himself  enslaved  to  Edith,  whom  he  had 
known  so  long.  He  fancied  it  a  stroke  of  origi 
nality  on  his  part,  which  must  prove  as  delightful  to 
her  as  it  was  to  him.  When  Biirlen  mounted  the 
stage-coach  at  the  Cleft,  he  was  momentarily  eclipsed  ; 
but  a  glance  at  the  mirror  as  he  was  going  to  bed 


THREE  LOVERS.  29 

reassured  him.  "It's  a  pity  Bnrlen  is  so  brown 
and  solemn,"  he  remarked  aloud,  after  getting  this 
view  of  himself.  "And  then,"  —  with  a  touch  of 
commiseration,  —  "  breeding  and  associations  must 
tell,  in  the  end.  The  man  is  too  much  of  an  enigma 
socially." 

The  consoling  power  of  these  reflections  was  so 
great,  that  Whitcot  permitted  himself  one  more 
cigarette  before  winding  up  the  experiences  of  the 
day.  The  cigarette  burned  briskly,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  his  heart,  enkindled  by  a  fond  passion, 
was  almost  if  not  quite  as  glowing  and  fragrant  as 
the  lighted  end  of  this  small  roll  at  his  lips. 


30  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


III. 

"  ENTHUSIASM." 

back  to  his  mutilated  manuscript,  Bur- 
len  gave  only  one  glance  at  its  torn  and 
crumpled  pages,  and  then  tossed  it  into  a  drawer. 
After  that  he  devoted  the  remaining  time  to  going 
over  the  subject  in  thought,  recalling  the  best  of 
what  he  had  written,  trying  to  go  deeper,  to  strike 
out  more  directly,  and  to  get  rid  of  the  conscious 
graces  of  oratory  which  he  had  planned. 

When  at  last  the  crucial  moment  came,  and  he 
emerged  upon  the  platform  to  face  a  subdued  flutter 
of  fans  and  dresses  and  many  rows  of  heads  planted 
in  the  pews  of  the  old  chapel,  his  address  met  with 
applause  and  a  surprised  appreciation.  He  had  re 
solved  to  put  forth  a  strength  which  should  convince 
his  hearers  as  well  as  himself.  The  blow  rang. 
The  frigid  walls  echoed  his  emphatic  tones  with  a 
startled  sound  ;  his  class  listened  to  him  in  surprise  ; 
Archdale's  lucid  spectacles  were  fixed  upon  him  with 
a  brightness  that  seemed  to  signalize  his  intent  ap 
proval ;  and  the  main  body  of  fluttering  listeners 
found  that  it  had  got  something  to  flutter  about  in 
earnest. 

He  began  with  combating  Locke's  declaration  that 
enthusiasm  is  no  divine  inspiration,  but  merely  the 


"  ENTHUSIASM."  31 

result  of  overheated  imagination ;  following  with 
examples  from  the  lives  of  heroes  and  martyrs,  and 
an  argument  on  their  results  to  show  that  under  the 
flames  of  imagination  there  had  been  a  solid  and 
exhaustless  substance  of  more  than  ordinary  reason, 
—  a  persistent  inspiration  which  was  true  enthusi 
asm.  This  quality  had  been  confused  with  mere 
fanaticism  in  books,  and  he  tried  to  point  out  in  his 
own  way  how  the  two  things  should  be  distinguished. 
He  dwelt  much  on  the  nobility  of  self-denial  and 
self-sacrifice  for  conviction's  sake ;  the  special  need 
of  them,  too,  at  the  present  day  in  eas}'-going,  suc 
cess-loving  America.  Near  the  end  he  drew  a  pic 
ture  of  the  drilling  of  a  tunnel  through  a  mountain, 
to  illustrate  the  union  of  a  calm  endurance  with 
enthusiasm.  "Inspiration,"  he  said,  "may  con 
stantly  be  providing  the  instant,  explosive  power 
essential  to  the  work ;  but  unless  the  heading  is  in 
order,  and  the  cold,  steely  points  of  the  drill  are  in 
place,  the  work  will  never  advance. 

"  The  persistence,  the  cold  mechanism,"  he  went 
on,  —  "  where  shall  we  find  it?  That  is  the  task  of 
a  lifetime,  to  which  we  must  never,  during  a  single 
waking  moment,  cease  to  address  ourselves.  But 
the  inspiration,"  —  here  his  voice  became  a  soft, 
fluid  fire,  and  he  gazed  out  over  the  people  with  a 
commanding  s}*mpathy  that  swept  them  all  into  one 
current,  —  "  oh,  believe  that  it  is  in  }-ou,  in  me  ! " 
Involuntarily  his  hands  went  with  a  quick  gesture 
to  his  breast,  and  fell  again.  "  Believe  that  a  new 
force  goes  out  into  the  world  from  us,  to-day,  which 


32  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

is  not  our  own,  jet  for  which  we  are  responsible. 
This  is  enthusiasm  !  " 

It  was  not  a  performance  that  he  had  set  before 
them,  but  a  fact ;  a  fresh  utterance  from  a  fresh 
heart.  He  scarcely  knew  when  he  had  ended.  The 
ceasing  of  his  voice  startled  his  hearers  even  more 
than  its  resonance  had  done ;  and  when  all  was 
over,  forgetting  to  make  a  conventional  bow,  he 
bent  his  head  for  an  instant  with  an  effect  of  mingled 
benediction  on  those  who  sat  below  him  and  prayer 
to  some  higher  power.  As  he  withdrew  to  his  place 
he  seemed  to  pass  back  into  his  ordinary  self,  for 
the  first  time  since  beginning  to  speak.  If  there  had 
been  an  atom  of  self-consciousness  in  what  he  had 
said  and  done,  the  whole  might  perhaps  have  crum 
bled  ;  but  there  had  not  been,  and  it  stood. 

"He  is  a  born  orator!"  people  murmured. 
"What  a  wonderful  effort!"  said  they,  of  a  thing 
which  was  remarkable  by  its  absence  of  effort.  But 
the  phrase  was  meant  for  high  tribute. 

In  one  hour  he  had  dissolved  the  cloud  of  preju 
dice  which  had  hung  over  him  for  three  years.  At 
the  party  for  the  graduates,  that  evening,  in  Arch- 
dale's  capacious  gambrel-roofed  house  and  old-fash 
ioned  garden,  to  which  Whitcot  and  llavling  and 
many  townsfolk  came,  he  was  in  great  demand.  He 
looked  a  little  awkward,  however,  in  his  frock  coat 
and  white  tie,  and  showed  a  tendenc}r  to  get  into  the 
background ;  not  being  fully  aware  of  his  triumph. 
Still  throbbing  with  the  desire  which  had  been  on 
him  to  say  something  true,  and  feeling  that  the  time 


"ENTHUSIASM."  33 

for  saying  it  had  gone,  he  even  felt  some  depres 
sion. 

But  he  was  happy  in  looking  at  Edith  among  the 
bus}'  talkers,  and  watching  the  smiles  and  passing 
lights  on  her  face.  Blooming  at  the  surface  of  her 
two-and-twenty  }-ears,  she  was  like  some  miraculous 
water-flower  that  rested  on  the  pausing  tide  of  time 
in  solifcaiy  perfection.  Eveiywhere  she  went,  she  car 
ried  with  her,  like  Milton's  Eve,  a  pomp  of  winning 
grace.  Her  largely  moulded  arms  were  bare,  and 
from  a  soft  turbulence  of  white  lawn  her  calm,  full 
throat  emerged  with  an  effect  of  girlish  stateliness. 
From  one  shoulder  a  chain  of  airily  wrought  flowers 
trailed,  curving  with  a  novel  grace  far  down  on  the 
front  of  her  dress,  so  unobtrusive  and  so  cleverly  ar 
ranged  that  the}'  seemed  to  be  clinging  there  simply 
by  aid  of  her  motion  as  she  walked. 

She  was  a  very  different  sort  of  person  from  her 
father  and  Mrs.  Savland.  From  her  mother  she  had 
inherited  a  more  opulent  nature  than  theirs,  and  it 
showed  in  all  the  details  of  her  sumptuous  beauty. 
Her  eyebrows  were  very  dark  and  almost  straight, 
though  their  delicate  arch  prevented  any  undue  flat 
ness  ;  and  her  under-lip  was  so  full  as  to  curl  per 
ceptibly  as  if  from  pure  abundance  of  natural  power. 
Underneath  her  eyes  was  a  soft  line  of  shading,  and 
the  lids  —  except  when  she  looked  directly  into  an 
other  face  —  concealed  perhaps  half  the  eye.  This 
gave  her  a  certain  unaffected  queenliness  which  de 
sign  could  hardly  have  bestowed.  The  softly  curling 
lip  and  the  coolness  which  reigned  over  her  beauty 


34  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

were  sometimes  taken  to  indicate  cynicism.  If  they 
did,  a  surrounding  of  susceptible  undergraduates 
might  have  accounted  for  it.  Besides,  during  the 
winter  she  had  been  in  Boston,  seeing  people  whose 
riches  were  greater  than  themselves,  and  going  about 
in  a  self-appreciating  circle  where,  by  contrast,  she 
had  been  forced  to  discover  some  of  her  own 
strength. 

Burlen,  at  all  events,  had  no  fear  of  its  being  a 
real  cynicism  that  evening.  He  was  standing  on  one 
side  of  a  doorway  when  from  the  other  he  heard  Rav- 
ling's  voice,  measured  and  urbane,  discussing  with  a 
thoughtful  young  lady  (who  believed  she  was  making 
an  impression  on  him)  — it  was  Miss  Viola  Welsted, 
by  the  way  —  the  discourse  of  the  morning.  "  That 
closing  simile  about  the  drill  and  so  on,"  said  the 
lawyer,  "was  good.  Yes,  as  things  go,  the  whole 
production  was  very  fair.  But  there  was  one  point 
he  failed  to  bring  out ;  which  is,  that  enthusiasts  are 
perpetually  mistaking  for  divine  motives  and  general 
principles  what  are  really  abnormal  schemes  sug 
gested  by  their  own  personal  whims  or  misfortunes. 
I  should  say  he  would  have  to  look  out  not  to  fall 
into  that  error  himself." 

The  graduate  flushed  as  he  listened,  conceiving  a 
sudden  contempt  for  this  man,  his  opponent  in  love, 
who  appeared  to  be  adroitly  disparaging  him  behind 
his  back.  But  at  that  instant  he  saw  Edith  making 
a  slight  imperative  gesture  for  him  to  cross  the  room 
to  her.  Ravling's  remark  fled  from  his  mind,  and 
he  made  haste  to  obey ;  passing  by  Archdale,  who 


"  ENTHUSIASM."  35 

was  talking  gravely  with  a  bon}'-cheeked  graduate 
about  "speculative  neologists"  and  "rationalizing 
sceptics." 

44  Why  haven't  }TOU  been  near  me  before?"  asked 
Edith,  with  the  most  generous  flatter}'  a  young  wo 
man  can  give  to  the  man  who,  she  knows,  is  already 
consumed  with  delight  at  being  in  the  same  room 
with  her.  "I  haven't  had  a  single  chance  to  tell 
you  how  much  I  liked  3"our  oration  —  or  whatever  we 
ought  to  call  it.  Is  oration  a  large  enough  word  ?  " 

"  Too  large,"  said  Burlen.  "  Take  the  first  letter 
alone  :  that  describes  it." 

"A  naught?  No,  no!  You  sha'n't  speak  of  it 
that  waj'.  What  you  said  was  a  great  help  to  me. 
It  set  me  thinking  so,  gave  me  such  ideas." 

The  young  man's  sombre  face  broke  into  a  ra 
diance  delightful  to  sec.  "  I  could  hardly  have 
believed  that  possible."  he  murmured. 

"  But  3-011  would  have  been  sure  of  your  power  if 
you  had  ever  talked  to  me  before  in  anything  like 
that  strain.  Oh,  dear!"  she  continued  with  uncon 
cealed  but  not  very  contrite  humilit3',  "it  makes 
me  so  ashamed  to  think  what  you've  been  learning 
all  the  time  you  Ve  been  here,  while  I  've  made  so 
little  progress  !  " 

"  You  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  astonishment.  Then 
with  an  air  of  trouble  he  added:  "I've  never  been 
able  to  say  much  of  what  I  felt  before.  There's 
been  a  weight  on  me  all  these  3'ears.  And  then  to 
3'ou,  especially  —  " 

"  Did  you  think  me  so  especially  unable  to  under- 


36  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

stand?"  she  broke  in,  her  pretty  cynicism  gathering 
force.  "  I  'm  even  worse  than  I  thought,  then." 

"It  isn't  that."  Burlen  blushed.  "But  I  had 
a  horror  of  forcing  my  profession  on  any  one  in 
conversation." 

"  After  3'our  oration  to-day,"  said  Edith  frankly, 
with  a  smile,  "I  don't  feel  it  to  be  your  profession 
that  you  speak  seriously  on  a  great  subject.  It 's 
simply  yourself." 

How  could  he  reply  to  this  ?  It  was  clear  that  she 
spoke  without  flattery,  and  to  thank  her  for  what 
she  said  would  be  vanity,  compared  with  her  inno 
cent  candor.  He  looked  at  her  earnestly,  with  lips 
slightly  apart,  like  a  person  who  listens  for  the  repe 
tition  of  a  sound  he  is  not  quite  sure  of;  then  his 
eyes  fell.  "You  encourage  me,"  he  said,  in  a  deep 
voice. 

It  is  singular  that  in  this  world  people  can  hardly 
titter  a  direct  truth,  even  the  kindest,  without  im 
mediately  feeling  something  like  shame  for  it.  Are 
we  so  accustomed  to  evasions  that  the  soul  recoils 
before  its  own  honesty,  when  occasionally  revealed, 
as  if  it  were  disgraceful?  Whatever  the  reason, 
these  two  succumbed  to  the  usual  embarrassment, 
after  their  brief  exchange  of  cordial  sincerity. 

"  I  must  n't  keep  you  here,"  said  Edith  vivaciously, 
in  a  moment.  "I  only  wanted  to  thank  you  for 
y0ur  —  vour  sermon;  and  there  are  some  friends 
waiting,  who  want  me  to  present  you.  Come." 

As  they  went  together  Burlen  asked  if  he  might 
take  her  in  to  supper,  afterward.  She  assented,  and 


"  ENTIIUSIA  SM."  37 

then  he  was  formally  made  known  to  a  pair  of  elderly 
ladies,  old  connoisseurs  in  3'outhful  preachers,  who 
basked  most  embarrassingly  in  the  transient  splendor 
of  his  success. 

Whitcot  passed  three  hours  of  fierce  discomfort 
at  the  party,  and  when  supper  came  he  nobly  perse 
vered  in  a  savage  resolution  he  had  made  not  to  eat 
anything,  —  not  even  an  ice-cream.  Stung  by  the 
progress  Burlcn  seemed  to  be  making  with  Edith,  he 
projected  a  still  more  terrible  step.  Mrs.  Savland 
had  asked  him  to  take  the  same  train  with  them  to 
Savage's,  and  of  course  he  had  entered  warmly  into 
the  plan.  But  he  now  determined  to  inflict  on  Edith 
the  blow  of  going  thither  by  another  route.  He  was 
jealous,  and  she  might  as  well  know  it. 

When  he  took  his  leave,  he  said,  "  I  find  I  must 
bid  you  good-by  for  several  days,  unless  I  should 
see  }*ou  before  we  get  to  Savage's." 

She  looked  surprised.  "Are  you  prevented  from 
going  up  with  us  ? " 

"I  shall  go  —  I  have  decided  to  go,"  he  said,  at 
tempting  to  throw  a  grieved  meaning  into  his  manner 
" —  by  the  other  route." 

"  I  dare  say  you  '11  find  that  better,"  she  returned 
calmly,  with  no  appearance  of  regret.  "Good-by, 
then." 

Half  an  hour  later.  Whitcot  would  have  given 
any  moderate  fortune,  not  his  own,  to  resume  the 
arrangement  he  had  just  broken. 

Ravling  went  to  the  little  house  where  he  was 
to  room  for  the  night,  full  of  an  excitement  that 


38  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

hovered  around  him  and  penetrated  him  like  the 
searching  and  exquisite  scent  of  the  grape-blossoms 
in  Dr.  Archdale's  garden,  which  he  had  just  been 
inhaling.  Sedate  as  he  was,  he  could  not  evade 
the  influence  of  the  party,  with  its  bright  lights,  its 
pretty-faced  girls  in  fresh  dresses,  the  hum  of  talk 
and  light  spurts  of  laughter,  the  sight  of  groups  and 
couples  straying  in  and  out  of  the  house  and  about 
the  roomy  lawn  and  garden  full  of  delicious  latter- 
June  perfumes.  The  young  girls,  and  the  little  men 
in  black  coats  and  white  ties  just  turned  out  of  the 
theological  mould  prepared  to  adjust  the  destinies 
of  these  or  other  damsels,  had  all  been  stirred  by 
visions  of  coming  possibilities.  There  was  an  aroma 
of  anticipation  about  the  whole  company.  "Why 
shouldn't  I  have  my  fresh  young  hopes  as  well?" 
Ravling  queried.  He  said  to  himself  that  the  fact 
of  having  been  refused  once  ought  not  to  discourage 
him  permanently ;  in  fact,  his  two  competitors  had 
not  even  got  as  far  as  that. 

But,  remembering  Burlen's  ascendanc}'  during  the 
whole  day,  he  felt  that  he  must  make  a  move  on  his 
own  behalf  before  Edith  took  her  departure. 


EDITH'S  BLUE-ROOM.  39 


IV. 

EDITH'S  BLUE-ROOM. 

MEN  do  not  commonly  make  their  surroundings 
respond  sympathetically  to  their  own  charac 
ter.  When  they  try  it,  the  result  as  a  rule  is  frag 
mentary  and  without  permanence.  But  a  woman's 
nature  will  often  melt  into  her  dwelling-place,  color 
ing  it  and  becoming  part  of  it. 

I  am  thinking  chiefly  not  of  the  general  proposi 
tion,  but  of  Edith  Archclale  in  particular.  It  was 
so  with  her.  The  room  which  saw  most  of  her,  and 
therefore  told  most  of  her,  was  her  own  "blue- 
room  "  in  the  upper  story  of  Archdale's  house,  where 
the  gambrel  —  bending  like  a  woman's  finger  about 
to  measure  cloth  —  vaulted  in  a  cosey  apartment, 
with  four  dormer  windows  looking  on  the  evergreens 
in  front  and  part  of  the  garden  on  the  side. 

To  enter  here  was  to  breathe  a  clearer  air  and  to 
encounter  a  fresh  serenity.  On  the  sill  of  one  of  the 
windows  bloomed  a  miniature  parterre  of  flowers  in 
a  flat  tiled  box,  breaking  the  vividness  of  the  out 
door  glare,  as  it  passed  in  among  the  pale-blue  and 
straw  tints,  the  lavender  and  harmonious  brown  of 
the  interior.  There  were  lambrequins  of  muslin 
plaited  on  the  edge  with  blue,  and  lined  with  it; 
dotted  and  plaited  muslin,  again  worked  with  blue 


40  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

silk  and  bordered  with  trembling  lace,  covered  the 
maiden  pillow  on  the  small,  neat  bed.  And  so  the 
spots  of  robin's-egg  color  and  pearl  were  carried  from 
point  to  point  about  the  room,  often  in  articles  that 
bore  trace  of  the  sweet  girl's  own  patient!}-  obscure 
handiwork.  The  jewel-case  on  the  toilet-table  had 
blue  satin  in  it  which  her  fingers  had  fitted  there. 
Mats  which  she  had  crocheted  and  trimmed  in  keep 
ing  with  everything  else  lay  about  in  the  proper 
places.  On  a  small  writing-table  near  another  dor 
mer  was  a  feathered  pen  which  she  had  painted,  and 
opposite  that  stood  a  screen  on  which  passing  fancies 
of  birds  and  tall,  waving  grasses  and  a  gaunt,  white 
moon  had  been  impressed  by  her  brush.  But  there 
was  not  much  in  the  room  of  this  purely  a?sthetic  na 
ture  ;  and  the  needle-work,  though  showing  originality 
and  graceful  judgment,  was  of  the  nameless  domestic 
school  our  mothers  and  grandmothers  formed. 

"  I  like  the  Kensington  work,  too,  and  Japanese 
things,"  Edith  would  say  ;  "  but  true  art  is  free,  and 
means  fine  enjoyment  in  many  different  ways.  So 
wh}r  should  I  be  tied  down  to  one  way,  like  my  Bos 
ton  friends?"  (Miss  Viola,  for  example,  was  always 
grieved  into  silence  by  any  ornamentation  which 
did  not  conform  to  the  canons  of  the  Embroidery 
School.) 

The  large  glass  in  an  old-time  twisted  frame, 
tipped  saucily  back  on  the  toilet-table,  took  in  these 
objects  and  man}*  others,  grouping  them  all  effective 
ly,  —  the  soft  hush  of  the  meek  window-hangings,  the 
curve  of  a  graceful  cup  on  a  bracket,  and  the  broken 


EDITH'S  BLUE-ROOM.  41 

shadow  of  pictures  in  dull-wood  frames.  A  tall  Ve 
netian  vase  of  opalescent  glass,  with  a  leaf-twined 
stem,  stood  near  it,  tremulous  with  as  many  smoth 
ered  gleams  of  color  as  there  were  waves  of  emo 
tion  in  Edith's  heart  every  da}'.  Was  there  powder 
in  the  powder-box?  I  fear  there  was,  and  that  Edith 
was  not  above  using  a  little,  sometimes.  As  to  the 
perfume  bottles  —  but  we  must  not  pry  too  curiously. 
I  suspect  if  they  contained  anything,  it  must  have 
been  the  fragrance  of  maidenly  innocence  itself. 

It  was  in  this  room  that  Edith  sat,  the  afternoon 
after  the  part}',  working  with  blue  tambo-cotton,  in 
satin-stitch,  a  pretty  initial  on  a  small  linen  bag.  As 
she  worked,  she  smiled.  She  was  thinking  of  Whit- 
cot  and  his  farewell.  She  knew  he  had  taken  offence, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  it  seriously.  Even 
now  he  hovered  before  her  recollection  as  a  man  with 
a  smiling  face.  She  always  thought  of  him  in  that 
way.  Whitcot  was  too  light  a  weight  to  play  trage 
dy  in  real  life,  unless  the  tragedy  all  came  from  other 
persons.  He  was  interesting  while  he  remained 
volatile  and  active,  but  repose  and  gloom  neutralized 
him.  We  all  of  us,  however,  assume  parts  and  yield 
to  moods  without  much  reflection  as  to  whether  our 
complexions  and  temperaments  fit  us  for  them  ;  and 
so  this  mistaken  youth  was  continually  taking  a  line 
of  action  very  disadvantageous  to  him. 

She  could  n't  think  long  about  one  of  her  admirers 
without  including  glimpses  of  the  other  two.  They 
obtruded  themselves  on  the  field  of  mental  vision  like 
friends  who  by  mistake  may  have  got  within  range 


42  /-iV   THE  DISTANCE. 

of  a  camera  intended  to  photograph  only  one  sit 
ter.  The3T  appeared  in  fragments ;  they  were  out 
of  proportion,  and  would  have  been  horribly  dis 
concerted  if  they  had  known  that  the}r  were  being 
looked  at  in  this  manner ;  but  such,  1113-  dear  young 
men  who  insist  on  getting  in  the  way  of  the  female 
camera,  is  the  fate  in  store  for  all  of  3*011 !  Burlen 
had  beyond  doubt  gained  much  in  her  appreciation 
during  the  last  twenty-four  hours.  She  had  never 
looked  up  to  him  before :  she  did  now.  Edith  was 
a  girl  to  whom  this  kind  of  change  appealed.  She 
had  never  looked  up  to  any  man  near  her  own  age, 
until  now.  Yet  Ravling  came  close  after  Burlen, 
at  least,  in  commanding  this  regard.  There  was  a 
fitness  about  him  which  she  had  never  seen  in  an3r 
one  else.  His  manner  corresponded  exacth'  to  him 
self  and  his  mode  of  thought.  He  never,  like  Whit- 
cot,  tried  to  be  something  which  he  could  n't  be,  and 
perhaps  he  was  rather  less  fitful  than  Burlen. 

So  she  went  on  making  dissolving-views  of  these 
several  young  men,  while  her  needle  twinkled  through 
the  linen  and  left  its  little  azure  trail  there  ;  until 
Mrs.  Savland  appeared  at  the  threshold  and  told  her 
that  Ravling  was  below,  wishing  to  see  her. 

"I'm  going  back  to  Boston  to-night,"  said  he, 
when  she  came  into  the  long  sitting-room,  attired  in 
a  sand3*-tinted  dress  belted  with  blue,  and  looking 
veiy  bright  and  composed.  "It's  such  a  lovely 
afternoon  that  I  thought  3Tou  might  possibly  be  in 
clined  for  a  walk." 

If  he  had  seemed  more  eager,  she  might  not  have 


EDITH'S  BLUE-ROOM.  43 

gone  ;  but  here  his  self-possession,  so  effective  with 
her,  stood  him  in  good  stead.  "  Will  you  wait,"  she 
asked,  "  till  I  get  on  my  bat?  " 

The  hat  was  an  unpretentious  covering  of  straw, 
trimmed  simply  with  a  blue  that  matched  her  belt. 
But  as  they  went  down  through  the  garden  and  into 
the  fields,  the  lawyer  was  smitten  with  wonder  at  find 
ing  that  a  dress  of  sandy-colored  thin  cloth,  and  a  pale 
straw-hat,  could  become  such  captivating  objects. 

"Shall  we  get  some  water-lilies,  at  the  lake?" 
asked  the  wearer  of  the  blue  belt.  "  Or  what  shall 
we  do?" 

"  Whatever  you  like,"  said  he.  "  M}T  notion  was 
to  go  along  the  hill  just  above  the  lake  and  into  that 
hollow  where  you  said  the  blue  gentians  grow." 

"Yes,  that's  a  nice  walk,"  she  agreed.  "But 
you  know  we  don't  get  gentians  till  autumn." 

"Don't  3'ou?  I  suppose  not."  It  didn't  seem 
to  be  a  crushing  disappointment  to  him. 

"I  know  where  moccasin-flowers  grow,  too,"  said 
she.  "But  for  them  it  may  not  be  early  enough. 
They  come  and  go  in  a  breath." 

"Then  I'm  both  too  early  and  too  late,"  he  re 
joined.  "  Never  mind  :  we  shall  have  the  walk." 

"  And  no  water-lilies?" 

"Why  should  I  consent  to  take  them,  when  I 
wanted  gentians,"  he  laughed.  "I'm  set  upon  get 
ting  what  I  wanted,  or  nothing." 

He  had  n't  meant  to  lead  up  to  the  subject  of  his 
suit  by  this  remark  ;  but  its  appositeness  struck  them 
both,  and  Edith  blushed. 


44  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  That,  or  nothing?"  she  asked,  hastily.  u  Then 
the  poor  water-lilies  must  be  resigned,  I  suppose. 
But,  honestly,  don't  }*ou  think  you're  too  haughty? 
—  No,  I  won't  tell  you  any  more  of  your  faults ; 
I  'm  afraid  it  embitters  you." 

' '  I  should  be  glad  to  take  your  criticisms  less 
seriously,"  said  he ;  which  was  true,  but  flattered  her 
as  much  as  if  it  had  been  an  invention. 

They  moved  in  silence  along  a  narrow  path  which 
began  unaccountably  in  the  midst  of  the  grass-field 
and  stole  up  a  slope  among  the  pines.  There  they 
saw  the  white,  creeping  glimmer  of  the  lake  just  to 
the  north.  In  a  thicker  copse  beyond  the  piny  hill 
vireos  were  singing  swiftly,  but  just  around  them  the 
wood  was  very  still.  A  moment  before,  they  had 
been  in  sight  of  the  clustered  roofs,  the  spires  and 
belfry  of  Marie,  its  tall  shade-trees  and  cultivated 
fields ;  but,  by  a  transition  peculiar  to  American 
scenerj",  a  few  steps  seemed  to  have  carried  them 
out  of  the  reach  of  civilization.  Here  Ravling  laid 
down  a  light  shawl  for  Edith.  "  Let's  sit  a  moment 
where  we  can  see  the  lake,"  he  proposed. 

44  There's  a  boat  on  it,"  said  Edith,  taking  the 
place.  It  was  discernible  at  the  other  end  of  the 
pond,  skimming  over  the  water  like  a  huge  white 
butterfly. 

"  How  restless  it  looks,"  observed  Ravling,  idly. 
"It's  really  absurd!  Judging  from  the  motion,  I 
should  say  that  whoever 's  in  that  boat  must  be  in  a 
disturbed  state  of  mind.  But  I  dare  sacy  he 's  per 
fectly  comfortable.  Appearances  deceive."  They 


EDITH'S  BLUE-ROOM.  45 

both  listened  to  the  wind  sighing  louder  and  fainter 
in  the  pines  above  them.  "  That's  the  way  with 
people,"  he  continued.  "  There  are  others  who  look 
perfectly  comfortable  and  are  very  uneasy.  —  I  've 
half  resolved  to  run  up  to  Savage's,  Miss  Archdale, 
some  time  while  you're  all  there." 

"I  think  Miss  Welsted  may  come,  too,"  she  sug 
gested. 

"  Do  you  put  that  forward  as  an  inducement?" 

"Not  as  an  obstacle,  certainly." 

"There  are  other  inducements  that  would  be  still 
more  powerful,"  he  returned.  "  If  I  could  only 
know  that  3*011  would  think  again  of  what  I  once 
asked  you,  and  think  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  me 
hope."" 

Edith  kept  her  eyes  on  the  darting  boat,  without 
at  once  replying.  "Do  you  think  it's  quite  fair," 
she  asked,  finally,  "  to  bring  that  up  again,  after  my 
trusting  so  completely  in  3- our  silence?" 

"  I  can  only  throw  myself  on  3'our  mercy,"  he  an 
swered,  strenuously.  "  A  woman's  merc3r  is  more  to 
be.  trusted  than  a  man's  silence. — We  were  speak 
ing  the  other  day  about  great  aims.  Is  n't  my  aim 
great  enough  ?  " 

He  paused,  and  she  glanced  up  to  ask,  "What 
aim? "  —  as  she  had  recently  asked,  "  What  desire ?  " 
But  the  burning  earnest  in  his  eyes  made  the  question 
impossible.  The  conventional  man  had  disappeared  : 
it  was  a  whole-souled  devout  ardor  that  faced  her, 
in  his  guise.  "I've  put  the  problem  to  nryself  in 
many  wa3Ts,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  cannot  leave  3rou  out 


46  IX  THE  DISTANCE. 

of  it,  try  as  I  may.  You  are  my  aim,  Miss  Archdale. 
I  can  find  no  higher  one.  I  know  I  seem  cold  and 
self-centred  enough ;  but  if  I  have  n't  the  power  to 
lose  myself  in  any  other  hope  or  ambition  than  the 
one  3'ou  have  roused  in  me,  is  it  my  fault?  Selfish 
or  not,  I  must  declare  to  you  this,  —  that  my  life  is 
empt}*  and  uninviting  without  3*011.  It  leads  nowhere. 
Am  I  never  to  hope  that  it  can  receive  its  purpose 
from  3*011  ?  " 

When  the  last  word  had  escaped  him,  the  wind 
that  was  ruffling  the  lake  struck  more  vehemently  up 
into  the  trees,  and  filled  the  wood  with  a  gradual, 
bewildering  roar.  The  wind  beat  into  Edith's  face, 
too ;  and  as  she  sat  there  amid  the  breez3'  tumult, 
with  the  sense  of  waving  boughs  and  unsteady  sun 
light  around  her,  and  Ravling  standing  fixed  and 
determined  in  the  commotion,  there  was  an  illusion 
in  her  mind  of  Nature's  having  taken  part  with  him 
against  her.  To  her  amazement  she  felt  a  moment 
ary  impulse  to  yield ;  at  least  to  give  him  a  distant 
hope. 

"  Can  it  be  that  I  am  realty  so  necessa^  in  3-0111' 
thoughts  ?  "  she  asked,  without  meeting  his  gaze. 

"I  have  told  you  how  necessar3T,"  he  returned 
steadily.  "  I  dreaded  to  speak  of  it  again.  I  had 
hardly  made  up  my  mind  to,  when  we  came  out. 
But  I  want  something  to  hold  by,  something  to  work 
for :  can't  you  tell  me  that  you  will  think  of  it  this 
summer  ?  " 

"•It  would  be  wrong,"  she  said;  "for  then  3~ou 
would  expect  more.  Oh,  ivhy  have  3-011  brought  this 


EDITH'S  BLUE-ROOM.  47 

up  again?"  She  had  risen,  and  was  walking  towards 
the  lake  slowly,  but  turned  with  an  appealing  look. 

"Because  I  have  no  art,  but  only  a  consuming 
need." 

The  words  made  her  wonder  if  she  knew  what  she 
was  doing  in  so  persistently  refusing  Ravling's  devo 
tion.  How  strange  that  when  so  much  power  of 
expression  is  given  to  human  eyes  and  speech,  so 
much  significance  to  the  shaping  of  a  hand,  the  heart 
should  often  be  so  dumb  and  uncertain !  But  the 
image  of  Viola  suddenly  presented  itself  to  her,  and 
decided  her. 

"  Please  don't  say  anything  more,"  she  said, 
abruptly.  "  Perhaps  instead  of  too  little  purpose 
you  have  too  much  :  you  want  your  own  will  to  pre 
vail  over  everything." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  he  retorted,  "  you  don't  really  com 
prehend  my  feeling.  You  are  still  living  in  the  future. 
I  am  older,  and  have  begun  to  live  in  the  present. 
Soon  I  shall  have  only  the  past  left  to  live  in.  Well, 
with  your  advantage,  3^011  .can  afford  to  be  chilling." 

"  I'm  not  chilling  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  flash  of  in 
consistent  displeasure.  "  But  if  you  think  me  so, 
why  do  you  insist  upon  wanting  my  love?  " 

"From  the  fascination  that  anything  unattainable 
has,  perhaps." 

"Are  we  to  reproach  everything  that's  unattain 
able,  then?  That's  unreasonable.  Suppose  that 
some  one  were  attached  to  you, — some  girl  you 
did  n't  care  for.  We  can  imagine  such  a  thing,  can't 
we  ?  "  The  shadow  of  scorn  in  her  lower  lip  here 


48  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

became  a  little  more  distinct.  He  was  vaguely  con 
scious  that  she  might  be  referring  to  Viola.  She 
continued  :  "  You  would  seem  to  her  far-off  and  un 
feeling  ;  and  yet  perhaps  it  might  not  be  your  fault." 

"  I  only  know,"  he  said,  despairingly,  "  that  you 
are  the  highest  and  best  in  my  life." 

It  was  not  strange  that  when  the  pungent  spice 
of  the  pines  and  the  triple  downward  trill  of  the 
vireos,  floating  in  with  the  sandal-wood  color  of 
the  sunlight  which  divided  the  round  shadows  of  the 
boughs,  gave  her  pleasure,  these  words  should  also 
thrill  her.  But  she  only  said  :  "  That's  another  fact 
about  the  unattainable  —  it  is  easy  to  exaggerate  it. 
Whatever  you  feel  about  me,  Mr.  Ravling,  keep  it 
intact.  It 's  all  that  I  'm  able  to  give  3*011 ;  and  if 
we  discuss  it  any  more,  you  '11  be  sure  to  lose  even 
that." 

They  had  been  so  preoccupied  that  the}'  did  not 
notice  until  now  how  the  restless  sail  had  borne  down 
towards  the  point  where  they  stood,  a  few  feet  above 
the  water.  By  this  time  it  was  so  close  that  they 
could  recognize  the  occupant.  It  was  Whitcot.  He 
had  in  fact  been  trying  to  relieve  the  agitation  of  his 
mind  by  sailing  rapid ly  around  the  lake,  with  innu 
merable  tacks  and  jibs. 

4 'Won't  you  come  out  with  me?"  he  asked,  cor 
dially.  "  I  '11  take  3*ou  to  the  other  end,  and  you  can 
walk  back  that  way." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Edith.  "  If  Mr.  Ravling  —  "  She 
glanced  at  him  to  sec  if  he  also  would  accept  that 
means  of  escape ;  and,  fancying  that  he  would, 


EDITH'S  BLUE-ROOM.  49 

stepped  into  the  boat  from  the  beach.  He  supported 
her  arm  as  she  did  so ;  then  drew  back  and  lifted 
his  hat. 

"  I  must  make  quick  time  to  the  village,"  he  said. 
"  I  'm  going  to  take  an  earl}'  train." 

"  Shall  vou  be  up  again?"  asked  the  helmsman. 

"  No  ;  not  this  summer." 

"  But  }'ou  think  we  may  see  }*ou  at  Savage's,"  said 
Edith,  in  a  friendly  way.  She  hoped,  on  Viola's  ac 
count,  that  he  would  come. 

"  Possibly,"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  more  gentle  than 
was  usual  with  him.  He  sought  her  eyes,  and  they 
exchanged  a  brief  glance,  which  told  him  nothing. 

Then  the  boat  was  pushed  off,  and  he  went  swiftly 
back  into  the  wood.  The  same  aromatic  odor  saluted 
him,  as  before,  and  the  distant  birds  were  still  sing 
ing  ;  but  everything  that  gave  the  spot  life  for  him 
was  gone.  All  at  once  he  came  upon  the  forgotten 
shawl  on  which  Edith  had  rested,  and  picked  it  up 
eagerly. 

Whitcot  seized  his  opportunity  in  the  boat,  to  try 
to  recede  gracefully  from  the  plan  of  going  alone  to 
Savage's,  but  Edith,  out  of  pure  mischief,  parried 
his  efforts,  and  he  gave  them  up.  When  she  reached 
her  house,  she  found  the  shawl  and  a  bunch  of  water- 
lilies  awaiting  her,  from  Ravling.  She  interpreted 
the  flowers  as  a  poetical  sign  of  surrender  to  hoi- 
wishes,  which  was  in  fact  what  he  had  meant  to  indi 
cate  in  gathering  them. 

This  little  performance  detained  him  until  a  later 
train.  Dusk  had  come  ;  he  seated  himself  as  far  as 
4 


50  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

possible  from  any  lamp,  and  wished  that  a  cold, 
pelting  rain  would  descend,  by  way  of  giving  him  a 
frigid  sympathy  in  his  wretchedness.  But  as  the 
night  insisted  on  being  fine,  he  closed  his  eyes  and 
imagined  the  delights  of  plunging  through  some 
broken  culvert  or  over  a  bad  embankment.  His 
whole  life  seemed  shattered,  and  he  thought  it  might 
as  well  end.  Then,  remembering  the  calm  which  he 
so  successfully  kept  up  amid  all  these  pangs,  a 
grotesque  fancy  struck  him  that  he  was  like  a  piece 
of  stone  destined  for  a  grave,  which  waits  unmoved 
for  the  record  of  irreparable  loss  to  be  traced  upon 
it,  and  goes  on  staring  cheerfully  for  years  at  the  sun 
which  lights  up  its  dreary  inscription. 


ARCPIDALE.  51 


V. 

ARCHDALE. 

ON  the  same  evening  that  Edith  found  the  water- 
lilies  left  for  her,  Archtlale  was  approached  by 
his  sister,  Mrs.  Savland,  in  a  short  talk  of  a  confi 
dential  nature. 

Mrs.  Grace  Savland  was  a  lady  who  was  undenia 
bly  growing  old  ;  but  she  did  it  so  cleverly  that  her 
face,  instead  of  being  seamed  with  visible  wrinkles, 
acquired  an  increasing  though  deceptive  smoothness. 
How  this  happened  I  cannot  say ;  but  to  the  casual 
and  uninitiated  ej'e  it  would  appear  that  sand-paper 
was  delicately  employed  to  secure  such  a  result. 
She  was  frail  in  figure  ;  her  whole  aspect  was  dainty  ; 
and  whatever  sorrows  she  had  had,  they  found,  it 
might  have  been  fancied,  a  balm  in  that  judiciously 
scented  handkerchief  which  she  was  always  taking 
out,  and  with  which  she  stanched  her  occasional 
tears. 

"I  wish,  Thomas,"  she  said,  coming  into  his 
study  soon  after  the  lamp  was  lighted,  "that  you 
could  be  with  us  at  Savage's.  Would  n't  the  change 
do  you  good  ? ' 

Elderly  people  carry  their  own  climate  in  their 
bones,  —  an  equipoise  of  the  heat  and  cold  of  many 
years.  So  Archdale  was  not  eager  for  change. 


52  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

Besides,  he  knew  from  something  in  his  sister's 
manner  and  the  enforced  patience  with  which  she 
had  folded  the  handkerchief  in  her  hand,  that  this 
proposed  benefit  could  not  be  her  real  object  in 
speaking. 

"  You  don't  want  me  on  my  account,"  he  said,  in 
his  gentle  voice,  which  had  about  it  the  mellowness 
of  candle-light  and  old  books. 

"  No — not  entirely,"  said  Mrs.  Savland,  demurely. 
"I'll  tell  you  why." 

"  I  will  listen,"  consented  her  brother.  "  But," 
he  continued  with  a  kind  of  cheerful  petulance,  "  }'ou 
know  beforehand,  of  course,  that  for  me  to  go  with 
you  would  upset  all  my  plans  for  the  summer.  I  'in 
intending  to  make  a  special  review  of  Justin  and 
the  other  Apologists,  and  I  can  only  do  it  here  with 
all  my  books  about  me."  Then,  the  interest  of  the 
theme  presenting  itself:  "  You  know,  Grace,  that  in 
the  middle  ground  they  occupied  between  Christianity 
and  Pagan  philosophy,  they  are  objects  of  particular 
notice  for  us  now.  In  these  days  we  see  the  same 
sort  of  characters  —  " 

"Then  why,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Savland,  with  her 
unwrinkled  smile  and  an  air  of  happy  discovery,  — 
"  why  go  back  so  far  to  study  them?" 

The  old  theologian,  with  his  hands  at  his  coat- 
front,  tapped  his  thumbs  together  in  mild  annoyance. 
"  How  can  you  be  so  absurd,  Grace?  The  reflection 
of  our  own  traits  in  the  blurred  mirror  of  a  former 
age,  the  tracing  of  the  resemblance  there  —  " 

Mrs.  Savland,  cool  and  comfortable  in  her  lilac- 


ARC  II  DALE.  53 

muslin  gown,  was  not  to  be  heated  or  carried  away 
by  a  sentence  from  one  of  his  well-worn  lectures. 
"Nothing  could  be  truer,  Thomas,"  she  hastened 
to  assure  him.  "I  quite  agree  with  you  about  the 
blur.  But  what  I  came  to  speak  about  was  Edith 
and  our  stay  at  Savage's,  this  summer." 

"  Edith? "  echoed  Archdale.  He  had  already  for 
gotten  how  the  conversation  began. 

"Yes.  Haven't  you  seen  how  greatly  young 
Burlen's  interest  in  her  increases?" 

"  I  hardly  think  I  've  observed  it." 

"Is  that  because  he's  not  an  Apologist?"  Mrs. 
Savland  asked,  feeling  wicked.  "It's  true,  any 
way,  that  his  interest  is  growing  ;  and  what  is  more, 
Edith  gives  a  great  deal  of  thought  to  him." 

Archdale  began  to  look  bothered,  but  attentive, 
—  a  sign  hailed  with  joy  by  his  sister.  "That  is 
strange,"  he  remarked  with  precision;  "especially 
when  she  knows  so  little  about  him." 

"No,  Thomas.  The  very  circumstance  that  his 
history  is  obscure,  and  that  she  feels  there  is  some 
thing  in  his  past  which  calls  for  sympathy  and  kind 
ness,  is  in  his  favor.  It  rouses  sentiment  without 
her  knowing  it."  In  this  Mrs.  Savland,  if  otherwise 
superficial,  showed  herself  more  penetrating  than 
Archdale. 

The  perception  of  that  fact  vexed  him,  and  so  he 
immediately  opposed  her  at  hazard.  "  Really,  even 
if  }'ou  are  right  about  all  this,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  see 
why  I  should  object  to  it.  Burlen  is  a  fine  fellow  in 
every  way."  He  hesitated  a  little,  then  went  on. 


54  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

li  If  Edith  realty  cares  for  him,  why  should  n't  I  —  " 
There  was  a  longer  pause,  but  Mrs.  Savland  allowed 
him  to  accomplish  his  own  ruin  without  interruption 
—  "Yes;  why  shouldn't  I  trust  her  happiness  to 
him?"  But  he  had  spoken  with  such  increasing 
slowness,  and  at  last  peered  so  timidly  through  his 
glasses  at  Grace,  that  instead  of  the  sentence  com 
ing  out  as  a  triumphant  vindication  of  his  wisdom, 
it  was  really  a  confession  of  weakness. 

Content  with  this  victonr,  Mrs.  Savland  gave  him 
a  chance  to  surrender  at  discretion.  "  Of  course," 
said  she,  "  if  }*ou  have  already  thought  it  over  and 
are  perfectly  prepared  for  the  emergence*,  I  have 
nothing  more  to  sa}*." 

Archdale,  as  he  had  just  shown,  was  not  prepared ; 
and  he  knew  that  she  had  discovered  this.  Hence, 
beguiled  by  masculine  pride,  he  answered  in  a  con 
clusive  way  :  u  I  certainly  sha'n't  change  my  schemes 
on  this  account.  Interference  at  present  would  hardly 
be  justified,  and  you  can  watch  affairs  up  there  just 
as  well  as  I  could.  Indeed —  "  he  smiled  with  pleas 
ure  at  his  own  generositty  in  making  the  admission  — 
"I  may  almost  sa}r  you  will  do  it  better." 

Grace  regretted  her  magnanimity.  ' '  Good  night," 
she  said,  with  tender  reproach,  as  she  rose  and  went 
to  the  door.  Only  her  formal  curls,  the  stiffness  of 
her  muslin,  and  her  averted  eyes  expressed  the  full 
force  of  her  injured  severity.  But  when  she  got  to 
her  room  she  touched  the  corners  of  her  eyes  with 
the  scented  handkerchief. 

The  moment  the  door  closed  upon  her,  Archdale 


ARCHDALE.  55 

became  a  prey  to  anxious  reflection.  All  his  thoughts 
were  fixed  upon  what  she  had  just  referred  to ;  and 
before  long  he  rose,  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  off  by 
the  servant  a  brief  note  directed  to  Burlen.  It  was 
plain,  from  his  inaction  after  the  servant  had  gone, 
that  he  was  waiting  for  the  young  man  to  come  to 
him.  He  sat  perfectly  silent.  The  lamplight  shone 
on  his  polished  head,  scantily  adorned  with  dark- 
gray  hair  that  still  grew  thick  where  it  grew  at  all, 
and  revealed  the  clear,  pure  outline  of  his  mouth  and 
chin  between  the  dogmatic  side-whiskers  whiter  than 
the  hair. 

He  was  a  man  the  very  set  of  whose  lips  was  so 
scholarly,  that  to  look  at  them  made  one  feel  like 
consulting  a  Greek  dictionary  off-hand.  There  was 
a  peculiar  orderliness  about  him,  reflecting  the  na 
ture  of  his  mind.  His  learning  and  his  thinking 
were  clean  and  starched.  He  read  a  classic  as  he 
would  comb  his  hair  (what  was  left  of  it),  because 
it  made  him  feel  neat  and  presentable.  Between  the 
whiskers  his  face  was  shaven  with  particular  smooth 
ness  and  completeness  ;  and  so  even  were  his  nerves, 
that,  though  his  own  hand  held  the  razor,  I  do  not 
think  he  had  been  known  to  cut  himself  with  it  once 
in  twenty  years. 

Such  precision  was  natural  in  a  man  whose  ances 
tors  for  several  generations  had  been  exact  in  divin 
ity.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  before  this  particular 
evening,  his  great-grandfather  had  also  sat  in  a  New 
England  pastor's  study,  under  the  fainter  rushlight 
glimmer  of  his  da}T,  with  sacred  and  solid  books 


56  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

around  him.  The  great-grandfather  was  of  course  a 
sturdy  Calvinist ;  but  as  a  softer  and  broader  illumi 
nation  began  to  steal  over  the  religious  horizon,  his 
son  took  his  stand  with  the  milder  section  of  the 
church  known  as  u  Hopkinsians."  By  the  time  this 
son  had  grown  to  manhood  and  had  two  boys  of  his 
own,  the  liberal  Arminians  had  begun  to  doubt  the 
vicarious  atonement  and  Christ's  divinity  ;  in  a  word, 
were  becoming  Arian,  or  Unitarian.  One  son  chose 
the  new  path  and  went  with  the  Liberals.  The  other 
retained  the  "  Hopkinsian  "  Calvinist  views  of  his 
sire ;  and  this  one  was  the  father  of  Thomas  Arch- 
dale.  Even  before  their  emigration  from  England 
the  family  had  been  a  clerical  one ;  and  though 
Thomas  alone  now  kept  up  the  tradition,  there  tingled 
in  his  veins  a  sense  of  caste.  He  represented  one  of 
the  few  kinds  of  hereditary  aristocrac}^  that  receive  a 
careless,  grudging  recognition  in  America.  And  it 
was  with  something  like  the  pride  of  a  waning  aris 
tocracy  that  for  many  years  he  had  written,  taught, 
and  preached,  dreaming  of  the  restoration  of  his 
Pilgrim  forefathers'  faith  to  its  ancient  power. 

On  Burlen,  more  than  on  any  one  else  whom  he 
had  helped  to  educate,  he  had  come  to  rety  as  the 
apostle  who  should  go  into  Boston,  battle  with  the 
doubters,  convince  the  thinkers  wrho  were  growing 
looser  and  looser,  more  and  more  secular,  and  bring 
back  multitudes  to  a  strait  and  solid  belief.  How 
was  this  new  complication,  this  possible  affection 
between  the  young  man  and  Edith,  going  to  influence 


ARCHDALE.  57 

that  prospect  ?  Archdale  thought  he  could  see  how 
such  a  factor  might  be  made  to  help  it ;  and  yet  — 
the  door  opened  while  he  was  in  the  midst  of  his 
speculations,  after  a  light  rap  which  he  did  not 
observe,  and  Burlen  came  in. 


58  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


VI. 

TRAGIC   MEMORIES. 

" 'XT'OU  wished  to  see  me,  sir?"  asked  the  young 
-*.  man,  looking,  as  Archdale  thought,  vaguely 
excited. 

"Yes.  Sit  down,  Robert;  I  want  to  talk  with 
you." 

Burlen  took  a  stiff  chair  that  stood  near.  Feeling 
that  something  momentous  impended,  "May  I  ask 
you  —  "  he  began. 

"  You  wonder  at  m}r  sending  for  }'ou  now,"  inter 
rupted  Archdale.  "Yes.  Well,  it  is  of  decided  im 
portance,  the  subject  I  wish  to  address  }rou  upon. 
You  remember  how,  soon  after  the  beginning  of 
your  studies  here,  when  3*011  appeared  weighed  down 
with  sadness,  I  asked  you  if  it  would  n't  make  you 
easier  to  tell  me  the  cause  of  your  depression  ?  " 

The  student's  eyes  kindled.  "  Surely.  It's  3'our 
S3'mpathy,  then,  that  has  kept  me  up  ever  since,  and 
given  me  courage." 

"And  yet  3*011  remember,  too,"  the  Doctor  went 
on,  without  pausing  to  recognize  his  warmth,  "  that 
3Tou  reallj-  told  me  almost  nothing.  Be3'ond  the 
statement  that  your  life  had  been  full  of  darkness 
and  misery,  for  which  3'ou  were  not  to  blame,  3*ou 
gave  me  no  insight." 


TRAGIC  MEMORIES.  59 

"But  it  was  the  kindness  you  showed,  and  your 
willingness  to  judge  me  only  from  what  I  was,  that 
helped  me.  So  many  have  made  me  feel  that  my 
want  of  well-known  antecedents  was  a  disgrace." 

"  I  promised  you  that  I  would  never  allow  such  a 
want  to  make  any  difference  with  me,  Robert.  It 
was  the  barest  charity  in  me  to  do  that." 

"  And  you  don't  repent,  sir?"  demanded  Burlen, 
with  some  alarm. 

"  No,  my  boy.  But  you  hinted  that  sometime  you 
would  tell  me  more.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  period 
has  arrived  for  a  full  confidence." 

The  graduate  looked  down,  pressing  his  fingers 
tight  into  his  palms,  and  said  nothing  for  a  moment. 
"  Do  you  insist  upon  this?"  he  then  asked,  meeting 
his  instructor's  eyes,  but  with  deep  pain  in  his 

own. 

"  I  would  rather  have  you  insist  for  me,"  said  the 
older  man  in  his  gentlest  tone.  "  What  do  you  think 
is  just  and  right?" 

"  I  suppose  I  must  tell  3*011,"  Burlen  answered,  in 
a  low  voice,  hoarse  with  trouble.  "  You  are  entitled 
by  your  great  patience  —  "  He  broke  off,  and  moved 
his  seat  to  a  spot  more  in  shadow.  "  My  father  was 
a  blacksmith,"  he  suddenly  announced.  A  shock  of 
fastidious  revolt  at  the  fact  went  through  Archdale. 
"  But  that  is  nothing,"  continued  the  other  in  a  tone 
between  defiant  independence  and  bitter  mortifica 
tion.  "He  was  a  low,  coarse  man,  who  drank  to 
excess,  and  was  cruel  to  my  mother.  God  forgive 
me  !  Is  it  a  wrong,  a  sacrilege,  for  me  to  tell  you  so, 


60  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

Dr.  Archdalc  ?  Now  you  can  see  at  least  one  thing 
that  has  sealed  my  lips, — the  agon}'  of  saying  this 
about  my  own  father.  I  —  I  can't  go  on  with  it !  " 

"Take  time,"  said  Archdale.  But  if  his  voice 
ordinarily  called  up  the  image  of  mellow  candle-light, 
one  would  have  said  now  that  there  was  a  flicker  in 
the  flame.  "  You  will  find  it  easier,  in  a  moment," 
he  suggested. 

"  It's  not  my  disgrace  that  troubles  me,"  returned 
the  graduate.  "Plow  am  I  to  blame?  Yet  it's  all 
so  black  and  horrible  ;  it  is  so  utterly  unnatural  that 
I  should  have  to  suffer  this,  without  having  been 
able  to  prevent  anything  !  And  it 's  monstrous  that 
I  should  have  to  recite  the  wickedness  and  disgrace 
of  those  who  should  have  been  my  pride  and  love." 

"  Is  your  father  living?  "  Archdale,  racked  by  pity 
and  apprehension,  managed  to  ask. 

"No.  Dead!"  was  the  answer.  Burlen's  voice 
seemed  to  descend  into  that  absent,  unknown  grave 
which  the  words  implied,  —  so  deep  and  sorrowful  it 
was.  But  presently  he  resumed  :  ' '  All  my  memories 
seem  to  centre  on  one  dreadful  day,  —  the  da}'  when 
/struck  him,  my  father  !  " 

"  Ton!"  exclaimed  Archdale,  with  horror. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes !  I  whom  you  have  loved,  perhaps 
had  a  respect  for!  Yes,  I  did  that.  It's  the  one 
thing  I  have  to  repent  of,  and  I  have  never  ceased  to 
feel  the  terror  of  myself,  the  disgust,  that  I  felt  then. 
But  you  have  n't  heard  it  all.  There  is  some  excuse. 
I  '11  tell  you  how  it  happened." 

He  paused,  to  nerve  himself.     Archdale,  looking 


TRA  GIC  MEMORIES.  61 

at  him,  was  amazed  at  the  change  that  had  come  over 
his  face.  It  was  like  that  of  a  man  engaged  in  gallant 
contest,  the  lines  and  expression  strained  from  their 
usual  bent  to  an  overpowering  intensity  of  struggle. 
A  strong  impulse  of  kindliness  got  the  better  of 
Archdale's  distaste  for  the  ugly  revelation.  But  he 
waited  and  listened. 

"He  had  been  violent  that  da}',  and  had  abused 
my  mother.  I  must  tell  you  why ;  and  this  is  the 
worst  of  all.  I  had  a  sister  — "  Burlen's  voice 
broke.  "The  misery  of  it  is,  I  have  her  still;  at 
least  I've  never  learned  that  she  is  not  living,  and 
the  thought  of  what  her  life  may  be  haunts  me  like  a 
dream  of  hell.  My  sister  was  older  than  I."  As  he 
proceeded,  his  voice  rose  higher  and  swung  along  in 
a  tone  like  that  of  some  melancholy  chant  heard  at 
a  distance.  "When  I  was  about  fourteen  and  she 
nineteen,  she  disappeared.  I  did  not  fully  under 
stand  it,  but  my  poor  mother  was  nearly  insane  with 
despair.  My  father  took  it  upon  himself  to  get  into 
a  rage.  He  insisted  that  my  sister  had  been  sent 
away  to  get  her  bejxwd  reach  of  our  wretched  home  ; 
and  he  demanded  to  know  where  she  was.  Of  course 
my  mother  could  n't  tell  him.  And  then  he  struck 
her  cruelly."  The  speaker  bowed  his  head  in  his 
hand  for  a  moment,  desperate  with  the  recollection. 
"  I  had- seen  him  do  so  before  ;  but  something,  that 
time,  —  because  I  was  getting  older  I  suppose,  — 
made  it  unendurable.  A  shooting  fire  seemed  to  go 
from  my  heart  through  all  my  veins  and  sinews.  I 
was  almost  blind  with  anger. 


62  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"I  sprang  upon  him  and  hit  him  with  all  my 
might.  It  seemed  as  if  I  should  fasten  upon  him 
and  choke  him  ;  but  he  shook  me  off  as  I  was  shout 
ing  in  his  ear,  'If  you  strike  her  again,  I'll  kill 
you  ! '  When  he  had  thrown  me  off  he  glared  at  me 
strangely  enough,  but  he  didn't  lift  a  finger  to  touch 
me.  He  was  sobered  and  cowed.  When  I  saw 
that,  — "  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  begun, 
Burlen  looked  straight  into  Archdale's  eyes,  his  face 
hollow  with  anguish,  —  "when  I  saw  that,  it  was 
more  terrible  than  anything  that  had  happened  to 
me  before.  I  turned  and  ran  away  from  my  own 
triumph,  it  was  so  unnatural  and  wrong.  I  went  and 
hid  in  the  woods,  shattered  with  the  recoil  of  my 
own  passion  and  the  awfulncss  of  what  I  had  done. 
Not  for  days  and  months  did  I  recover.  It  was 
exactly  as  if  that  inner  fire  that  had  swept  over  me 
had  left  me  singed  and  black,  like  a  field  that  has 
been  burnt  over,  and  the  innocent  music  of  the  grass 
silenced  and  driven  out  of  it." 

"This  is  very  terrible,"  said  Archdale ;  but  the 
words  fell  upon  his  own  ear  as  if  they  were  merely 
something  that  he  was  repeating  after  another  per 
son. 

"It  was  better  for  a  while,  after  that  day,"  the 
young  man  continued,  quietly.  "But  still,  the  old 
troubles  came  back."  He  remained  thinking  so  long 
that  Archdale  asked,  — • 

"What  was  the  end?" 

"End?  There's  none:  there  was  none  !  It 's  all 
with  me  now,  —  the  whole  story.  It 's  a  part  of  me. 


TRAGIC  MEMORIES.  63 

My  mother  died  in  two  years  more,  never  having 
heard  a  word  from  Thyrsa,  —  my  sister.  Then  I 
told  my  father  I  should  go  ;  and  I  left  him,  to  try  to 
support  myself.  It  was  a  hard  path,  but  I  began  to 
have  hope.  I  remember  well  one  night,  not  long 
before  mother  died,  how  I  walked  out  alone  in  the 
starlight,  almost  crushed  by  the  sorrow  and  degrada 
tion  I  had  been  through.  On  the  top  of  a  small,  bare 
hill  I  stopped,  and  then  I  felt  the  sweet  breezes  com 
ing  towards  me  like  messengers.  I  smelt  the  wild, 
fresh  perfumes  from  the  woods.  First  I  wondered 
wh}~  such  perfumed  breezes  blew,  and  I  so  unhappy. 
Then  they  lifted  m}'  heart  up,  and  1  had  a  sudden 
vision  of  a  brighter  world  this  side  of  heaven  ;  a  life 
of  exuberant  freedom  and  purity.  That  was  really, 
I  think,  the  beginning  of  my  aspiration  towards  the 
ministry." 

"Did  you  begin  to  carry  it  out?"  asked  his 
listener. 

"  No  ;  I  could  n't  begin  at  once  —  afterward.  And 
then,  when  I  had  studied  somewhat  by  myself,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  my  first  duty  was  to  find  my 
sister, — that  I  shouldn't  be  prepared  for  my  work, 
without.  I  tried  the  few  clews  I  had.  I  got  em 
ployment  in  Boston,  and  searched  for  her  there.  Ah, 
what  a  search !  The  places  and  people  that  m}T  first 
clews  led  me  to,  I  'm  sure  you  never  have  seen  any 
thing  like  them.  What  women !  Worse  in  their 
desperate  ruin,  they  are,  than  the  most  brutal  man 
I  've  ever  encountered.  And  it  was  from  them  I  was 
trying  to  find  out  something  about  Thyrsa  !  I  never 


64  IX   THE  DISTANCE. 

found  out  anything  with  certainty ;  I  fancied  I  had 
got  upon  her  track,  sometimes,  but  it  led  away  from 
Boston  again,  I  did  n't  know  where  to.  Finally  I 
gave  it  up,  or  postponed  it.  I  regarded  it  as  my 
mission  ;  but,  with  my  bread  to  win,  it  was  hopeless. 
So  I  looked  for  a  place  in  a  country  store,  and 
worked  and  studied  there  till  I  had  saved  enough 
to  begin  my  course  here." 

"And  the  rest  I  know,"  said  Archdale,  with 
returning  composure.  Nothing  more  was  said  for 
several  minutes,  and  Burlen  walked  away  into  the 
darker  part  of  the  room. 

His  gray-haired  friend  gazed  after  him  with  a 
sentiment  approaching  awe.  Into  that  young  brain 
and  that  slender  frame  of  manhood  had  been  packed 
an  amount  of  experience,  of  mental  and  spirit 
ual  torture,  which  made  Archdale  feel  himself  the 
younger  of  the  two. 

"It  is  far  better  that  3*011  have  told  me  the  whole," 
said  he,  presently.  "I  understand  3*011  better  for  it; 
I  may  say  I  appreciate  you  better."  At  this  Burlen 
turned  with  a  swift  look  of  gratitude,  and  came  for 
ward  a  step  towards  the  light  again.  "You  will 
find,  too,"  the  good  Doctor  went  on,  "that  3-011 
are  better  off  for  it.  Sympathy  gives  one  freedom. 
You  have  mine,  fully;  and  you  mustn't  brood  mor 
bidly  over  any  act  of  3'our  own  in  the  past,  like  that 
which  3*ou  have  described." 

Burlen  approached  still  nearer.  "I  can't  thank 
3'ou  for  this,"  he  said,  3*6 1  in  a  voice  that  vibrated 
with  thanks.  "It  is  too  good.  You  understand, 


TRAGIC  MEMORIES.  65 

now,  what  has  been  weighing  on  me,  and  how  the 
dread  of  my  life,  since  I  was  fourteen,  has  been  that 
a  fiendish  wrath,  such  as  my  father  excited  in  me, 
might  sometime  sweep  me  away  again.  Any  unus 
ual  sensation  of  anger  has  made  my  conscience  burn 
me  like  a  hot  iron.  But  I  hope  I  have  beaten  out 
the  roots  of  the  evil  temper.  At  any  rate,  I  am  much 
more  hopeful  now  that  I  have  spoken  with  3*011." 

But  there  was  a  reserve  in  Archdale,  which  checked 
the  speaker. 

In  a  republic,  like  the  United  States,  the  instinc 
tive  recoil  or  inherited  prejudice  of  certain  people 
in  the  presence  of  unpleasant  social  conditions,  acci 
dents  of  birth  or  fortune  which  they  regard  with  dis 
favor,  is  often  as  strong  as  in  the  Old  World.  They 
may  be  able  to  recognize  theoretically  the  existence 
of  the  highest  qualities  in  people  of  the  humblest 
origin,  and  generally  do  recognize  them  after  suc 
cess  and  public  honor  have  emphasized  them.  But 
the  crude  facts,  when  they  are  suddenly  confronted 
with  these  in  their  own  associations,  are  still  dis 
tasteful  ;  and  they  throw  every  obstacle  they  can  in 
the  way  of  the  supposed  inferior.  Class  distinctions, 
in  spite  of  optimistic  theory,  are  maintained  with 
acrimonious  vigilance,  though  the  classes  are  defined 
on  a  different  plan  and  vary  more  in  outline  than 
those  of  Europe.  The  observers  of  these  distinc 
tions,  having  no  fixed  safeguard  arranged  for  them 
by  law  and  by  the  servility  of  inferior  orders,  are 
made  all  the  more  sensitive  by  constant  irritations 
to  their  dignity.  Hence  American  class  prejudice 
6 


66  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

is  alert  and  sometimes  singularly  unconquerable. 
Arcbdale's  sense  of  ancestral  superiority,  aided  by 
long,  secluded  commerce  with  the  cultivated  and  re 
spectable,  rose  against  the  fact  of  Burlcn's  vulgar 
lineage.  He  had  never  expected  anything  so  ap 
palling  to  be  revealed,  because  he  had  viewed  him 
always  solely  in  an  intellectual  light.  The  young 
candidate  was  conscious  of  a  drawing  back  on  his 
preceptor's  part,  and  noticed  that  he  was  brooding. 

"  Does  what  I  have  told  you  about  my  origin  and 
—  my  family  —  make  you  feel  different  towards  me  ?  " 
he  asked. 

Archdale  fixed  his  studious  lips  with  a  trifle  more 
exactness  than  common,  and  appeared  to  reflect. 
"  Frankly,"  he  replied,  "  it  does.  It  is  a  great  sur 
prise,  and  it  is  all  very  painful.  But  I  promised  you 
long  since  that  I  would  judge  you  by  yourself.  I  re 
newed  the  promise  this  evening,  as  it  chanced,  before 
you  began.  I  am  going  to  act  upon  it,  Burlen." 

The  young  man  sighed.  There  was  an  air  of  con 
strained  justice  about  this  answer  which  depressed 
him.  He  wished,  too,  that  the  Doctor  had  called 
him  "  Robert,"  and  that  he  had  offered  him  his  hand. 
"  There  is  one  thing  more,  sir,"  he  said  finally.  "  I 
forgot  to  speak  of  it  before  I  began  my  story.  It 
is"  —  Archdale  turned  his  spectacles  up  to  him  in 
quiringly —  "  that  you  won't  tell  any  of  it  at  present 
to  Mrs.  Savland,  or  —  to  Miss  Edith." 

4 'Is  it  not  better  to  be  open  about  it?"  sug 
gested  Archdale,  with  his  neatest  and  most  punctual 
accent. 


TRAGIC  MEMORIES.  67 

Burlen  answered  promptly:  "  Not  at  the  risk  of 
great  injustice  to  m}"self.  Even  you  find  it  difficult 
to  take  me  as  I  am,  now  that  you  know  all  about 
me.  I  ask  you  simply  to  wait  about  telling  the  la 
dies,  who  are  almost  iny  only  friends,  —  and  I  am  to 
pass  the  summer  with  them, — until  there  has  been 
time  to  adjust  it  more  fully  in  your  mind." 

On  being  recalled  to  the  projected  close  neighbor 
hood  of  Edith  and  Burlen,  Archdale  experienced  a 
keen  distress.  Why  had  he  not  listened  to  his  sister, 
who  would  probably  have  been  able  even  to  have 
devised  an  adroit  change  of  plan  ?  But  it  was  too 
late  now,  and  he  felt  himself  bound.  "  You  cer 
tainly  have  a  right  to  be  considered  in  your  wish  on 
this  subject,"  he  declared,  without  betraying  his 
trouble.  "  I  consent.  But  I  think  you  ought,  on 
j-our  part,  to  agree  to  one  thing." 

"  Willingly,  if  I  can.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"That  you  will  not  take  —  well,  take  advantage, 
I  was  going  to  sa}*  —  in  any  way,  of  my  reserve." 

The  clear  brown  in  Burlen's  cheeks  turned  to  red. 
"  I  will  promise,"  he  said.  "  But  perhaps,  if  you 
think  me  capable  of  that,  I  had  better  take  leave  of 
you  all." 

"  Don't  be  hurt,  my  boy  !  "  cried  Archdale,  startled 
out  of  his  constraint.  "I  didn't  mean  to  do  you 
wrong.  I  see ;  I  see.  Yes,  Robert,  I  trust  you." 
Sa}ing  which,  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Burlen  took  the  hand,  pressed  it,  and  went  away 
with  a  slow  step. 


68  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 


VII. 

SAVAGE'S. — AN  ODD  ENCOUNTER. 

FROM  a  point  directly  over  it,  in  the  air,  Monad- 
noc,  towering  high  above  a  chain  of  lower 
ridges,  would  take  on  the  semblance  of  a  gigantic 
arrow-head,  mapped  upon  the  lower  country  in  ribs  of 
rock  and  earth,  and  with  the  point  turned  southward. 
It  was  this  point  which  had  thrown  its  bold,  blue  pro 
jection  into  the  farthest  gap  of  the  landscape  which 
Edith  and  the  three  young  men  had  contemplated 
from  the  Cleft. 

The  flanks  of  the  mountain  are  the  flanges  of  the 
arrow-head,  one  longer  than  the  other;  and  deep 
between  them  is  scooped  a  vast  ravine  —  across 
which  it  takes  a  powerful  bird  some  minutes  to  fly  — 
descending  to  an  exquisite  lake  at  the  north,  ringed 
round  with  smaller  hills,  among  which  it  sparkles 
like  a  diamond  of  unearthly  size,  but  meek,  peace 
ful,  and  unpretentious  in  its  setting  of  young  wild- 
wood  trees.  And  this,  although  it  has  the  distinction 
of  harboring  a  species  of  trout  which  Agassiz  pro 
nounced  unique  in  the  whole  country.  From  the 
lake,  and  still  more  precipitously  from  the  serrated 
crown  of  the  mountain,  the  land  falls  quickly  away 
on  either  side,  into  valleys  rolling  on  to  other  lines 
of  lesser  altitude.  Below  the  naked  summit,  a  thick, 


SA  VA  GKS.  -AN  ODD  EN  CO  UNTER.       69 

elastic  covering  of  trees  mats  the  broad  sides  and 
robust  spurs  as  they  descend ;  brooks  tinkle  and 
pour  from  steep  to  steep,  hidden  under  the  green 
ery  ;  black-brown  rivers  chafe  angrily  at  the  base,  or 
draw  from  a  distance  tributary  rills  into  their  silver- 
reflecting  circuits  through  rich  meadow-lands.  Farm 
houses  creep  up  daringly  in  the  glades  or  on  the 
breezy  buttress-lines  of  the  enormous  primeval 
mound,  —  sometimes  a  deserted  farm  being  swallowed 
up  in  the  ever-waiting  forest,  its  orchard  choked  by 
encroaching  maple,  beech,  and  oak ;  at  other  times 
a  new  settler  audaciously  chopping  out  timber  for 
winter  hauling,  and  keeping  his  fields  cultivated  in 
the  midst  of  the  wood.  A  village  clings  to  one  side 
of  the  range,  like  a  collection  of  rice-grains.  Lower 
down,  other  villages  crop  out  under  every  variety  of 
adverse  condition  ;  some  of  them  swell  into  little 
towns  ;  church  steeples  spring  up  like  some  curious 
form  of  pointed  mushroom  growth  ;  a  railroad  pene 
trates  ;  woollen  mills  get  triumphantly  astride  of  the 
rivers,  —  in  fine,  the  reign  of  man  asserts  itself,  and 
is  completely  overshadowed  by  the  reign  of  the  ma 
jestic  hills. 

One  form  of  its  assertion,  at  the  time  of  which  I 
write,  was  Savage's  Mills,  —  a  thriving  village,  long 
established  ;  energetic  in  the  matter  of  flannels  and 
roller-cut  cloth,  famous  for  its  wagons  ;  taking  re 
venge  upon  the  frightful  winter  climate  by  manu 
facturing  unerring  and  deadly  thermometers,  and 
abounding  in  consumptives,  several  of  whom  annu 
ally  ceased  being  consumptives  —  or  indeed  anything 


70  IN  THE   DISTANCE. 

else  —  in  deference  to  the  river- fogs  of  summer  and 
the  thaws  of  Januaiy.  By  a  curious  yet  natural  co 
incidence,  the  aborigines  had  been  supplanted  by  a 
race  of  white  Savages.  The  Savage  family  bore  the 
chief  hereditary  honors  in  a  pure  local  democracy, 
and  gave  the  place  its  name.  Having  a  certain  tra 
ditionary  leadership,  and  being,  according  to  the  re 
gion,  rich,  they  would  have  been  detested  by  all  the 
other  citizens  as  feudal  aristocrats,  obnoxious  to  the 
well-being  of  the  nation,  if  the}'  had  not  studiously 
kept  up  the  shabby  manners  and  mild  semi-illiteracy 
of  their  ancestors.  These,  to  be  sure,  were  their 
birthright,  and  the  pride  they  took  in  even  such  an 
order  of  family  distinction  might  have  been  deemed 
perilous  to  society.  But  the  community  was  willing 
to  pass  that  over. 

The  present  representatives  were  "Mother"  Sav 
age,  who  dwelt  in  an  over-correct  white  house,  with 
green  blinds  and  a  long  piazza  ornamented  by  a 
scalloped  wooden  cornice,  assisted  by  her  three 
sons.  Dressed  in  a  faded  bed-gown  that  made  her 
look  like  an  exhumed  specimen  of  some  lost  order 
of  insects,  she  did  her  own  household  work,  and 
spent  her  leisure  hours  wholly  in  bed,  smoking  a 
short  pipe  and  reading  novels.  Her  eldest  son 
Absalom,  a  big,  red-bearded  person  with  a  dull  ex 
pression  (as  if  for  some  years  he  had  been  trying  to 
grow  deaf  and  could  not  quite  succeed),  had  become 
the  owner  of  the  woollen-mill.  Epenetus  B.,  —  ner 
vous  and  black-haired,  and  possessing  a  face  like  a 
disturbed  shadow,  — was  interested  in  thermometers 


SA  VAGE'S.  —  AN  ODD  ENCOUNTER.        71 

and  continually  drove  a  restless  buggy  through  the 
adjacent  country,  in  search  of  small  chances  to 
speculate.  The  third  son  was  Serious  Savage.  He 
kept  the  hotel,  nominally,  though  his  brisk,  pale  wife 
really  managed  the  business.  His  chief  accomplish 
ment  was  the  facility  with  which  he  drummed  on  his 
teeth  with  his  fingers  during  conversation,  and  while 
listening  to  the  wants  of  his  patrons  ;  though  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  the  village  folk  never  saw  any 
thing  remarkable  in  this.  They  were  more  impressed 
by  his  unbroken  languor,  which  they  mistook  for 
thought. 

On  an  early  day  of  July  and  near  the  hour  of 
noon,  Serious  and  a  group  of  his  friends  were  seated 
in  the  brick-floored  portico  at  the  front  of  the  hotel, 
trying  to  persuade  themselves  that  they  were  en 
gaged  in  conversation.  The  portico  appeared  to 
have  been  added  to  the  establishment  for  the  con 
venience  of  flies  and  loafers,  its  sole  occupants,  and 
was  provided  with  thin,  white,  wooden  columns  of 
much  the  same  form  and  dignity  as  bed-posts,  —  an 
architectural  feature  that  perhaps  flattered  Serious 
with  a  suggestion  of  his  mother's  luxurious  habits. 
After  one  of  the  frequent  intervals  of  silence  which 
reduced  their  conversation  to  a  mere  illusion,  a  sort 
of  mental  mirage  created  by  the  intense,  settled  heat 
of  the  daj',  one  of  the  group  hit  upon  a  fresh  subject. 
This  successful  personage  was  Breck  the  jeweller. 

"  Has  Tarbox  struck  water  yet,  with  that  well  of 
his'n  he's  diggin'?"  he  asked,  wearily. 

The  query  was  put  forth  as  common  property ;  but 


72  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

Major  Brown  at  once  acted  on  his  well-known  pre 
scriptive  right  to  answer  any  question  that  might  be 
asked  in  the  village.  "  No,  he  hain't,"  said  the 
Major,  contemptuously;  "and  what's  more,  he's 
losin'  five  cents  every  foot  he  goes  down,  'cordin'  t' 
his  con trac' -price.  Fact  is,  you  may  say  he 's  put 
his  foot  in  it  to  the  tune  of  a  five-cent  piece." 

The  others  acknowledged  the  wit  of  this  remark 
by  a  unanimous  but  indolent  and  husky  giggle. 

The  Major's  position,  as  he  tilted  his  chair  at  a 
sharp-  angle  against  the  boards  of  the  hotel  wall, 
brought  into  mournful  relief  against  the  wThite  paint  his 
dented  stove-pipe  hat,  the  rim  of  which  was  bound 
with  a  narrow  ribbon  of  stained  and  faded  blue,  and 
caused  his  brown  nankeen  legs  to  dangle  towards 
the  pavement  in  a  forgetful  manner.  A  number  of 
fawning  flies  were  engaged  in  worshipping  his  boots  ; 
five  others  were  delightedly  traversing  the  brown 
nankeen,  and  two,  more  ambitious  than  the  rest, 
promenaded  on  his  hat-brim.  Otherwise,  except 
for  the  more  guarded  adulation  of  the  men  around 
him,  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  his  importance  as 
sheriff  of  the  county  and  owner  of  the  last  remaining 
stage-line  to  Savage's. 

Time  had  been,  before  the  incursion  of  railroads, 
when  Major  Brown  had  ruled  over  various  lines  of 
coach-travel ;  but  those  palmy  da3*s  were  over,  and 
he  had  now  adopted,  as  the  survivor  of  a  better  era, 
a  tone  of  ponderous  dissatisfaction  and  nameless 
regret,  which  he  thought  becoming  to  him.  As  for 
the  flies,  he  no  longer  cared,  since  railroads  had  come 


SA  V AGE'S.  — A N  ODD  ENCO UNTER.        7 3 

into  vogue,  whether  dipterous  insects  continued  to 
exist  or  not ;  and  as  for  men,  he  accepted  their 
homage  in  much  the  same  spirit. 

"  Tarbox  ain't  no  artesian  any  way,"  observed 
James  Wadkin,  the  village  barber,  continuing  the 
subject  of  the  well.  ' ;  He  tries  his  hand  too  free 
in  different  kinds  of  work."  Then  he  gave  utterance 
to  an  original  economic  maxim  which  he  was  proud 
of:  "A  man  shouldn't  do  but  a  little  of  anything 
only  what  he 's  calculated  for." 

"  H'm,"  muttered  Serious,  opening  his  lips  and 
looking  as  if  about  to  drum  on  his  teeth ;  which, 
however,  he  failed  to  do. 

"  Guess  it'  s  pretty  much  about  so,"  stated  the 
Major,  conclusively. 

Another  tribute  was  paid  to  his  authority,  in  the 
form  of  a  subdued  murmur.  The  remaining  member 
of  the  company  was  young  Card,  who  had  lately 
taken  advantage  of  a  small  local  feud  to  establish  a 
new  hardware  store  at  Savage's ;  and  Card  testified 
his  support  of  the  Major  by  a  well-modulated  cough. 
He  was  sure  it  had  helped  him  along  a  step  or  two 
in  the  path  of  prosperity. 

All  were  silent  for  a  minute,  after  this.  It  was  a 
triumph  that  anything  should  have  been  said  at  all, 
and  they  basked  in  the  glow  of  it. 

"  I  und'stand,"  said  Breck,  fixing  his  one  earnest 
eye  on  Serious  (it  had  the  look  of  having  been 
photographed,  and  so  rendered  unable  to  change  its 
expression,  while  the  other  was  perfectly  listless),  — 
"  I  und'stand  that  Tarbox  is  goin'  to  take  to  takin' 
summer-boarders,  too." 


74  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"So?"  exclaimed  Waclkin,  disdainfully. 

There  was  another  silence,  and  Serious  was  about 
to  reopen  the  well,  with  as  much  interest  as  if  truth 
lay  at  the  bottom,  when  Card,  looking  off,  startled 
them  by  saying,  "There's  a  stranger  coming, 
Ser'ous !  " 

"Where?"  was  the  chorus  of  all  but  the  proprie 
tor,  who  was  able  to  give  his  renowned  apathy  re 
doubled  effect,  b3*  paying  no  attention. 

"I'kn  see  him,"  said  the  Major,  as  if  nothing 
more  were  necessary.  "He's  on  the  east  hill, 
comin'  down  the  road.  Don't  you  know  him, 
Waddy?" 

"No,"  said  the  barber;  and  Breck  and  Card 
could  n't  refrain  from  asking  the  Major,  "  Do  3*011?" 

To  this  he  deigned  no  reply.  He  turned  towards 
the  hotel-keeper.  "Who  you  expectin',  Ser'ous?" 

"  Most  anybod3',"  was  the  answer,  in  a  melanchol3r 
tone. 

Waddy  at  this  point  developed  a  sudden  super 
ciliousness  towards  the  approaching  pedestrian. 
"Where  can  a  man  come  from,"  he  queried  suspi 
ciously,  "  that  goes  traipsing  a- foot  through  the  coun- 
tr3r  with  a  bag  on  his  hip,  like  that?" 

"  Some  shack,  most  likely,"  said  Major  Brown, 
severel}T ;  meaning  a  tramp. 

Breck  and  Card  saw  with  grief  the  mistake  the3' 
had  made  in  barely  hinting  that  such  a  character 
might  be  known  to  the  Major.  Card  cast  about  for 
means  to  retrieve  himself.  "It's  pootty  near  time 
for  the  stage,"  he  ventured.  "  Do  you  s'pose,  Major, 


that  he  's  walked  all  the  way  from  Medoosic,  or  has  n't 
he  rode  on  the  stage  and  is  just  promenarding 
ahead?" 

This  theory  somewhat  mollified  the  autocrat, 
though  he  respected  himself  too  much  to  let  it  appear 
that  he  had  not  already  thought  of  it.  "That's 
reasonable,"  he  said,  affably,  "if  it  was  you  or  me. 
But  some  of  these  folks  from  Boston  have  queer  idees 
of  how  to  enjoy  themselves.  Why,  Ser'ous,"  he  con 
tinued,  turning  to  that  individual,  "  do  you  remem 
ber  John  E.  Barker?" 

"  I  don'  know  but  I  do." 

"Your  father  would  have  rec'lected.  John  E. 
Barker  was  cousin  to  R.  V.  Swift.  You  know 
that?" 

Serious  was  leaning  against  the  railing  at  the  end 
of  the  porch,  and  swung  his  chair  dexterously  on  one 
leg,  as  a  pivot,  far  enough  to  give  his  head  without 
other  effort  a  brief,  affirmative  bob.  But  this  did  n't 
quite  satisfy  the  Major's  notions  of  proper  explicit- 
ness,  and  he  persisted  until  Savage  admitted  that  he 
knew  both  men.  It  might  be  supposed  that  when 
one  man  sa}'s  to  another,  "You  know  John  E. 
Barker,  or  R.  V.  Swift?"  and  the  second  man  sa}Ts 
"Yes,"  that  this  would  be  enough.  But  it  is  not. 
It  is  always  necessary  that  the  first  speaker  should 
next  go  on  to  explain  with  great  minuteness  who 
John  E.  Barker  and  R.  V.  Swift  are  or  were  ;  what 
was  their  personal  appearance  ;  what  they  do  or  did  ; 
and  what  their  parents  were  in  the  habit  of  doing. 
While  Major  Brown  was  following  out  all  these 


76  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

branches  of  his  subject,  the  stranger  —  having  disap 
peared  from  the  east  hill  —  was  advancing  by  a  lower 
part  of  the  road ;  and  before  the  foundations  of  the 
sheriff's  reminiscence  had  been  laid,  footsteps  min 
gled  with  his  utterance. 

"  Sorry  to  interrupt  you,"  said  the  new-comer, 
without  any  appearance  of  regret,  "but  I  want  to 
find  out  where  Mr.  Tarbox's  house  is.  Can  any  of 
you  tell  me?" 

"  Guess  could,  if  we  tried,"  Serious  responded; 
intending  no  offence,  but  wishing  to  put  himself  on 
an  equality  with  his  interrogator  by  adopting  a  tone 
of  easy,  familiar  humor.  Thereupon  he  shut  his 
teeth  and  beat  a  tattoo  on  them. 

By  this  time  it  was  clear  that  the  traveller,  who 
wore  a  light-gray  suit,  with  gray  gaiters  over  his 
dusty  shoes,— Richard  Whitcot,  in  short, —could 
not  have  come  by  the  stage,  which  in  that  case  would 
have  passed  him  on  the  descent  into  the  town.  The 
Major  addressed  him  accordingly.  "  Come  by  the 
stage,"  said  he,  "and  you'd  ha'  been  taken  right  to 
the  door." 

"I'll  go  right  to  it  now,"  said  Whitcot,  tartly, 
"  if  you  '11  tell  me  where  it  is."  Whereat  the  Major 
rose  grandly  and  walked  into  the  hotel.  Card 
didn't  dare  to  give  any  information,  after  this; 
Waddy  followed  the  Major;  and  Breck  fixed  his 
earnest  eye  on  Whitcot,  in  silence. 

"  'T  ain't  much  of  a  walk,"  said  Serious,  in  a  cas 
ual  way.  « '  Stop  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  It  seems  I  'm  likely  to,"  returned  Whitcot,  "  if  I 
wait  for  you  to  tell  me  the  way  to  Tarbox's." 


SAVAGE'S.  — AN  ODD  ENCOUNTER.       77 

"  Oh,"  observed  the  landlord,  with  the  surprise  of 
a  mind  superior  to  strife,  "  I  didn't  s'pose  you  was 
in  any  partic'lar  hurry.  It 's  right  up  street  here  — 
third  house  be-j'and  the  Second  Church." 

"The  second  one,  eh?"  And  the  gray  gaiters 
resumed  their  march  along  the  rough  dirt-sidewalk. 

"  There 's  the  first  church,  not  far  ahead,"  reflected 
their  wearer,  as  he  advanced.  He  soon  came  abreast 
of  it,  —  a  brick  edifice,  belfry-crowned  and  set  back 
behind  a  grass-plot  which  was  surrounded  by  crazy 
wooden  posts,  chained  together  as  if  in  danger  of 
falling  if  left  to  themselves. 

No  other  church  was  in  sight,  but  as  the  road  took 
an  upward  turn  to  the  right,  he  moved  on  briskly, 
thinking  he  should  soon  pass  the  one  that  was  to 
serve  him  as  a  landmark.  His  thoughts  ranged  fast 
and  wide  as  he  went  along,  and  he  did  not  at  first 
notice  that  the  houses  became  less  frequent  in  the 
direction  he  was  taking.  By  and  by  the  discovery 
that  he  was  continually  ascending,  and  had  gone 
some  distance,  caused  him  to  look  about  again.  He 
found  that  he  had  nearly  reached  the  top  of  a  small, 
round  hill  overlooking  the  village,  and  that  the  road 
ran  on  into  the  country  with  no  accompaniment  of 
dwellings.  In  vain  he  looked  for  a  second  spire ; 
the  only  two  visible  besides  the  one  he  had  just 
passed  lay  in  quite  other  quarters  of  the  glen 
below. 

"  Confound  them ! "  he  exclaimed,  shaking  his 
fist  at  the  top  of  the  inoffensive  hotel.  "They've 
misdirected  me,  maliciously."  Then  he  remembered 


78  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

what  had  been  said  about  Burlen's  possibly  becoming 
the  pastor  of  the  "  Second  Church;"  and  his  error 
dawned  upon  him.  "  At  least  I  shall  be  able  to 
show  him  the  wa}%  when  he  comes."  he  laughed. 

At  that  moment  the  scream  of  a  locomotive  rose 
from  the  valle}'.  He  heard  the  dull  hum  of  the  cars, 
and  saw  a  long  web  of  smoke  weaving  itself  above 
the  trees  and  unravelling  itself  again  while  the  front 
of  it  worked  towards  the  village.  Under  the  web  he 
knew  that  Edith  and  Burlen  were  being  borne  along 
to  their  destination.  He  decided  to  go  down  and 
meet  them  at  the  hotel. 

Before  he  had  gone  six  steps  some  one  crossed 
the  road  in  front  of  him,  and  seemed  to  take  a  foot 
path  leading  down  the  hill.  It  was  an  energetic, 
bareheaded  young  woman  with  a  dark  face  rather 
striking  in  outline  as  it  flitted  by.  "Whitcot  took  her 
to  be  a  farmer's  daughter  or  a  factory-girl ;  but  her 
spirited  bearing  interested  him  for  the  moment,  and 
he  conceived  the  notion  of  going  after  her,  to  ask 
the  wa}~  to  Tarbox's. 

"Hold  on!"  he  cried,  gesticulating,  as  he  came 
up  to  where  he  could  see  her  following  the  short-cut. 

The  girl  turned  to  look  ;  became  alarmed,  as  it 
seemed,  and  began  to  run.  "  Fury  !  "  he  muttered, 
stopping  short.  "  This  is  the  most  extraordinary 
place  I  ever  got  into.  Uncommunicative,  decidedly. 
No  one  appears  to  want  me  here."  And  in  a  far 
from  good  humor  he  retraced  his  way  down  the 
hill. 

All  the  morning  Edith,  Mrs.  Savland,  and  Burlen 


SA  VA  GE'S.  —  AN  ODD  ENCOUNTER.       79 

had  been  making  their  way  by  steam  from  the  lower 
levels  of  Massachusetts  into  the  rough  entanglement 
of  the  Monadnoc  region.  They  got  into  a  narrow 
valley ;  the  train  dropped  one  car  after  another,  as 
if  to  quicken  its  flight ;  then  a  dark,  foamy  river 
made  its  appearance,  going  in  the  same  direction, 
and  entered  into  a  race  with  the  engine.  They 
crossed  it,  were  headed  off  by  it,  caught  up  with  it 
again  ;  all  the  time  passing  through  breadths  of  deep 
wood-shadow  or  shooting  out  into  broad  sunshine 
that  flooded  the  car,  so  that  some  great  green  cur 
tain  seemed  to  be  alternately  drawn  and  flung  back 
between  them  and  the  light.  At  length  the  engine 
slacked  its  speed,  and  the  river,  growing  quieter,  ran 
still  and  glass}T  towards  the  mill-dams :  there  was 
just  room  enough  for  the  track,  the  current,  and  a 
turnpike  between  the  two  steep  ridges  that  banked 
in  the  village.  As  the}^  glided  over  this  last  stretch 
Edith  broke  into  delighted  exclamations  at  the  bold, 
fresh  scenery  that  trended  upward  to  the  sky  on 
either  hand.  Savage's  Mills  was  forced  into  pictur- 
esqueness  by  its  very  situation.  She  laughed  out 
right  at  the  "cunning"  appearance  of  the  small 
abodes  nestled  along  the  acclivities  like  amplified 
bird-boxes,  prim  and  hard  in  their  outlines,  but  often 
brightened  by  some  touch  of  beauty,  —  a  clustering 
vine,  a  blooming  oleander,  or  a  body-guard  of  quaint, 
yellow-collared  sun-flowers. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  could  put  my  hand  out  of  the  win 
dow,"  she  said,  "and  pat  these  little  cottages  on 
their  roofs,  without  their  being  offended." 


80  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

"I  think,"  said  Burlen,  on  an  impulse,  "they 
might  bear  it  —  from  you."  During  the  short  jour 
ney  he  had  made  more  than  a  geographical  progress. 

Arrived,  they  were  carried  in  an  officious  open 
cart  to  the  hotel,  a  few  rods  away,  and  there,  clatter 
ing  up  a  flight  of  iron-bound  steps,  were  led  into 
small,  pantry-like  rooms  provided  with  meagre  ap 
paratus  for  sleeping  and  washing.  Burlen  had  just 
got  his  head  into  a  bowl  of  water,  when  a  terrifying 
clangor  echoed  through  the  halls  from  a  gong,  in 
tended  to  express  the  emotions  with  which  mankind, 
in  that  localit}r,  received  the  announcement  of  dinner. 
Lifting  his  head  in  showery  haste,  he  heard  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  the  voice  of  Serious  saying  dream 
ily  :  u  Dinner's  read}',  Mister." 

4 'Is  there  any  hurry?  "he  asked  in  some  alarm, 
knowing  the  momentarj'  and  rapacious  character  of 
the  feast  in  American  rural  hotels. 

"No,"  returned  the  unseen  Serious,  in  a  disap 
pointed  tone.  He  believed  himself  to  have  executed 
matters  in  the  "  city  style,"  and  found  the  effort  un 
appreciated. 

He  was  partially  compensated,  however,  by  find 
ing  Whitcot  returned  upon  his  hands  for  dinner. 

While  the  engineer  was  putting  the  last  touch  to  a 
hasty  toilet  in  a  small  room  behind  the  office-counter, 
he  looked  through  a  window  into  the  roomy  cobble- 
stoned  court  enclosed  by  the  hotel  and  its  stables. 
The  lumbering,  old,  j'ellow  stage-coach  had  arrived 
and  stood  drawn  up  in  one  corner,  like  a  disabled 
wasp,  on  the  grass-grown  pavement.  Suddenly 


SAVAGE'S.  — AN  ODD  ENCOUNTER.       81 

against  this  yellow  background  there  appeared  the 
figure  of  a  }~oung  woman  in  a  fresh  flowered  calico, 
—  a  shapely  girl,  with  something  unusually  effective 
in  the  style  of  her  dress,  and  a  striking  quality  in  her 
handsome,  browned  face.  She  had  just  issued  from 
a  side-door,  and  in  a  moment  passed  on  to  the  sta 
bles.  Whitcot  saw  that  it  was  the  same  girl  he  had 
encountered  on  the  hill,  and,  concluding  that  she 
would  come  back  presentl}*,  he  strolled  around  into 
the  court-yard,  moved  by  a  curiosity  to  scan  her 
more  closely.  As  he  entered  it  through  the  cov 
ered  driveway  from  the  front,  she  was  returning  from 
her  message  to  the  stables.  It  was  obvious  that  she 
was  emplo3'ed  in  the  inn. 

Despite  her  physical  vigor  and  a  degree  of  bold 
ness  in  her  features,  there  was  a  tinge  of  delicate 
melancholy  in  her  expression.  It  was  something 
twilight-like  and  strange ;  a  sadness,  a  remorse,  a 
grieving  memory  perhaps  ;  something  that  might  have 
been  the  faint  wave-mark  of  ancestral  sorrow  or  sin, 
or  slavery  of  some  kind.  Very  evasive  it  was,  and 
yet  it  impressed  Whitcot  at  once.  With  this  impres 
sion  there  came  to  him  a  vaguely  defined  premonition 
of  danger,  unusual  in  his  experience,  —  a  spontane 
ous  conviction  that  the  touch  of  her  life  to  another 
life  might,  under  given  circumstances,  be  full  of  ex 
traordinary  peril. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  benevolently,  "didn't  I 
see  you  just  now,  up  on  the  hill?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  some  appearance  of  think 
ing  that  he  intruded.  "  Perhaps  you  did,  if  I  was 
6 


g2  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

there,"  she    returned   carelessly,    and   was  moving 
away. 

44  Wait  a  minute,"  he  persisted.  "  I  want  to  know 
why  you  ran  off  when  I  called  to  you.  Why  did 

you?" 

"I  was  afraid,"  said  the  girl,  abruptly;  yet  her 
smile  was  by  no  means  timorous. 

"Afraid  !  That 's  very  singular.  I  had  been  mis 
directed,  and  wanted  to  ask  you  the  way.  Afraid  of 
me  ?  This  is  really  a  very  peculiar  place." 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  afraid  of  you.  I  thought"  — 
she  nodded  towards  the  interior  of  the  hotel — "I 
thought  you  were  some  one  else." 

41  That  was  it,  eh ?     Another  man  like  me? " 

44  Yes;  or  you  're  like  him,"  she  said,  rather  sau 
cily. 

4  4  In  there  ?     In  the  hotel  ?  " 

44  Pro'bly  he's  in  there  now." 

She  made  a  move  to  pass  on  ;  but  it  struck  Whit- 
cot  as  a  slightly  sensational  incident  that  so  resolute 
and  competent-looking  a  girl  should  be  afraid  of 
some  man  who  resembled  him.  "You  said  you 
were  n't  afraid  of  me,"  he  continued,  rather  piqued 
that  the  other  individual  should  be  more  powerful 
than  himself.  "Did  you  mean  you  couldn't,  any 
way,  be  afraid  of  me?" 

She  laughed  ;  perhaps  suspecting  his  small  vanity. 
Then,  becoming  serious,  she  raised  her  searching 
eyes  and  looked  him  all  over,  as  if  she  were  some 
creature  of  the  dark,  who  could  see  without  being 
seen,  and  therefore  had  no  hesitation  in  scrutinizing 


SAVAGE'S.— AN  ODD  ENCOUNTER.       83 

another  person.  "Well,  no,"  she  said,  reflectively. 
"  I  suppose  I  might  possibly,  if  you  were  to  benave 
badly  enough.  I  don't  see  what  it  is  to  you,  any 
way.  —  I  must  go  in  to  the  dinner  now." 

"  I  must  have  a  look  at  my  double,  too,"  said  he, 
half  to  himself.  "  By  the  way,  what 's  his  name?  " 

She  threw  herself  back  a  little,  from  the  waist  up, 
and  with  an  odd  gesture  pointed  a  half-bent  arm 
towards  the  house.  "His  name?  Ask  him." 

For  some  reason  Whitcot  found  it  easy  to  talk 
freely  with  this  n^sterious  young  woman,  and  he 
took  advantage  of  the  fact  to  put  an  impertinent 
question.  "  I  should  like  to  know  wh}r  3*011  're 
afraid  of  him,"  he  said.  "  Is  he  your  husband  ?  " 

The  giii  shook  her  head  with  a  dark  smile,  in 
which  a  hidden  scorn  lurked,  like  the  bitter  dregs 
in  wine.  "No.  He  has  n't  got  anything  to  do  with 
me.  But  I  'm  afraid  of  people  sometimes.  Every 
body  is,  if  they  've  a  mind  to  be." 

"Well,  I  should  say  he  had  no  good  reason  to 
make  you  uncomfortable,"  Whitcot  remarked. 

"No,  nor  bad  one  either,"  the  strange  girl  an 
swered,  keenly. 

Seeing  that  he  had  been  drawn  much  further  than 
he  intended,  and  not  liking  the  situation,  the  engineer 
was  glad  to  have  this  peculiar  .colloquy  close.  But 
just  as  they  were  turning  to  separate,  a  shutter  in 
the  upper  story  of  the  hotel  was  flung  back,  with  a 
flat  sound,  from  a  window  looking  directly  down 
upon  them.  Their  eyes  were  attracted  sharply 


g4  IN    THE  DISTANCE. 

upward  by  it,  and  there  they  both  saw  Edith,  who 
paused  for  an  instant  after  opening  the  shutter,  hav 
ing  caught  sight  of  Whitcot ;  apparently  surprised 
at  seeing  him  there  side  by  side  with  so  unwonted  a 
companion. 


RUDYARD.  85 


VIII. 

RUDYARD. 

TT7DITH  immediately  withdrew  from  the  window 
JL-<  again,  but  Richard  was  vexed  that  she  should 
have  happened  to  observe  him  at  that  moment.  He 
reproached  himself  for  his  blundering  curiosity  in 
coming  out  to  speak  to  the  unknown  young  woman. 
But,  "  I  only  wanted  to  ask  her  a  simple  and  reason 
able  question,"  he  thought ;  and  hereupon  he  became 
indignant  that  Miss  Archdale  should  have  looked 
surprised. 

The  girl  noticed  his  annoj^ed  air.  u  You  are  sorry 
that  lady  saw  you  here,"  was  her  comment,  given  in 
a  way  that  made  it  something  between  taunt  and 
triumph. 

Being  nettled,  he  replied  without  dignity-  :  "  Well, 
you  would  be  sorry  too,  I  presume,  if  your  —  who 
ever  he  is  —  your  alarming  man  in  there  should  see 
you  talking  to  me." 

u  Poll !  "  cried  she,  snapping  her  fingers.  "  What 
do  I  care  ?  But  }*ou  know  you  're  sorry  :  you  just 
said  so."  She  displa}'ed  an  impish  satisfaction  at 
the  idea. 

"  I  did  n't  say  so,"  declared  Whitcot,  weakly. 

4 'Well,  I  hope  you've  kept  me  here  long  enough 
to  suit  you,"  she  said,  and  tripped  away  through  the 


86  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

side-door ;  leaving  the  young  man  rather  dazed  at 
his  own  folly  in  having  placed  himself  on  a  footing 
with  a  woman  in  her  station,  and  getting  into  dispute 
with  her  on  a  point  connected  with  Edith,  before  he 
even  knew  who  she  was. 

The  dining-room  of  Savage's  Hotel  was  a  bare, 
ugly,  scrupulously  clean  apartment  filled  with  narrow 
tables,  at  which  a  variety  of  individuals  were  seated, 
all  eating  with  a  sad  kind  of  energy  as  Whitcot  en 
tered.  The  dinner  grouped  together,  almost  with 
the  swiftness  of  instantaneous  photography,  a  thin, 
scalding  pea-soup,  beef  roasted  to  the  clryness  of  a 
mumnyy,  some  vegetables,  and  a  rhubarb  pie,  — 
accompanied  by  cups  of  green  tea  so  strong  and 
maddening  that  an  army  served  with  it  before 
battle  would  have  been  in  a  fair  way  to  come  out 
victorious. 

The  dark-faced  girl  whom  he  had  just  left  was 
waiting  at  one  of  the  tables.  Whitcot  took  his  place 
at  another,  with  Mrs.  SavlancTs  party. 

Besides  Card,  Waddy,  and  Major  Brown,  the 
company  comprised  the  usual  broad,  overgrown, 
good-natured  man  with  jet-black  hair,  redundant 
beard,  jaws  and  lip  blue  from  the  dense  bristles  of 
shaven  whiskers,  and  cheeks  full-colored  and  clear,  — 
a  prize-product  of  fast  growth  and  excessive  vitalit}*, 
to  be  found  in  most  American  villages,  and  causing 
j'ou  to  look  him  over  in  vain  for  the  "  First  Premium  " 
card  which  you  imagine  the  agricultural  committee 
must  have  awarded  him.  There  were  also  several 
premature,  self-satisfied,  nondescript  youths,  and  two 


RUDYARD.  87 

women  marked  by  that  restless,  withered,  and  vaguely 
ambitious  t}Tpe  of  countenance  which  comes  from 
protracted  hotel-life.  Besides  these  there  was  a 
travelling  salesman,  who  fancied  that  he  had  acquired 
the  polished  ease  of  the  best  society,  but  turned  out 
not  to  be  quite  the  genuine  article.  He  was  rather 
a  cheap  adulteration  of  urban  dandyism,  supplied  in 
any  desired  (or  undesired)  quantity  to  "the  trade," 
and  at  a  liberal  discount. 

Finding  no  conceivable  resemblance  to  himself  in 
any  of  these,  Whitcot  was  obliged  to  look  for  it  in  a 
3'oung  man  dressed,  like  himself,  in  gray,  and  wear 
ing  a  light-hucd  mustache.  He  was  a  good  deal  sun 
burned,  and  had  on  a  very  clean  white  shirt ;  but  no 
necktie.  Whitcot  certainly  did  not  feel  flattered  by 
the  supposed  resemblance ;  yet  the  young  fellow 
was  not  bad-looking,  and  at  a  distance  —  well,  they 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  one  another  b}'  a 
person  crossing  the  road  in  haste.  Involuntarily, 
the  engineer  sent  an  inquiring  glance  towards  the 
waitress  as  she  passed  behind  this  presumed  double, 
and  he  thought  her  look  in  reply  meant  "  yes." 

"  But  why  should  she  fear  this  harmless-looking 
fellow?"  he  asked  himself.  "There  is  something 

o 

strange  about  it." 

Against  his  better  judgment  he  kept  thinking  about 
these  two  individuals,  with  whom  so  far  as  he  knew 
he  had  no  personal  concern,  nor  ever  could  have. 
He  stared  at  the  young  man,  —  a  mechanic,  appar 
ently,  —  and  speculated  in  regard  to  him.  He  tried 
talking  with  Mrs.  Savland  and  looking  in  other 


88  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

directions ;  but  his  attention  always  swung  back  as 
rigidly  as  a  pendulum. 

At  last  the  cravatless  young  man,  whose  gaze  had 
been  concentrated  on  his  plate,  felt  his  observer's 
scrutiny,  and  in  a  motionless  sort  of  way  brought 
his  e}'es  warily  up  so  as  to  command  the  engineer. 
They  were  clear,  dark-gray  eyes,  in  which  a  stilly 
fire  glowed.  They  seemed  to  meet  Whitcot's  with 
instantaneous,  dogged  enmity. 

A  most  singular,  unaccountable  gaze !  Perhaps 
the  man  himself  was  not  fully  aware  of  its  deliberate, 
knife-like  penetration  ;  but  it  was  so  unexpected  to 
Whitcot  that  he  flinched  before  it.  Careless,  super 
ficial,  unaccustomed  to  alarm,  he  none  the  less  felt  a 
chilly  shock  on  meeting  those  firm  gray  orbs.  His 
own  eyes  fell ;  an  instinctive  horror  touched  his 
mind,  and  he  began  to  understand  the  sad-faced 
girl's  dread.  After  this  he  ignored  the  gray-clad 
mechanic,  who  shortly  left  the  room  ;  but  he  was 
unable  to  eat  another  mouthful. 

"Shall  you  stay  at  the  hotel?"  Mrs.  Savland 
asked  him,  looking  around  with  a  silent  criticism 
that  would  have  embittered  Serious,  had  he  seen  it. 
She  had  come  to  dinner  with  her  bonnet  on,  in  token 
of  protest  against  the  martjrdom  of  receiving  daily 
bread  in  such  a  room. 

"I  sha'n't  stay  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Whitcot. 
"  I  've  got  a  room  at  Mr.  Tarbox's,  but  have  n't  been 
able  to  find  it.  And  where  is  this  place  you  're 
going  to  ?  " 

"A  Mr.  Pride's.     It's  a  farm,  you  know." 


RUDYARD.  89 

Whitcot,  with  some  liveliness,  narrated  his  attempt 
to  get  directed  to  his  boarding-place.  When  he  came 
to  the  part  about  the  young  woman  fleeing  before  him, 
"  I  felt  as  if  I  belonged  to  a  menagerie  and  had  just 
broken  out  of  my  cage,"  he  asserted.  But  Edith  did 
not  laugh  as  much  as  he  had  hoped  she  would. 
"By  the  way,"  he  added,  "it  was  this  very  girl 
that 's  waiting  at  the  other  table.  I  saw  her  in  the 
courtyard  just  now,  and  went  out  to  identify  her  as  a 
curious  specimen.  Now  she  '  evolutes  '  all  at  once 
into  a  waitress.  That's  my  species:  I'm  a  waiter 
—  for  Tarbox's.  By  and  by  I  shall  naturally  select 
myself  into  a  fully  developed  boarder." 

"We're  here  till  further  orders,  too,"  laughed 
Burlen.  "Mr.  Pride's  got  to  come  and  carry  us 
up  his  hill,  —  everybody  lives  on  a  hill  here,  —  and 
he  hasn't  yet  appeared.  It's  about  two  miles  out, 
didn't  you  say,  Mrs.  Savland?" 

"  Yes.  You,"  she  added  to  Whitcot,  "  must  come 
up  there  often." 

The  invitation  was  very  cordial.  He  thanked  her, 
and  his  spirits  rose  again. 

Strolling  into  the  office  afterward,  he  lit  a  cigar 
and  contemplated  Serious  Savage,  who  was  nibbling 
an  orange-wood  toothpick  in  a  dejected  manner. 
"Is  that  your  daughter,"  he  asked  bluntly,  "who 
waits  on  the  longest  table  ? " 

"I  don'  know,"  said  the  proprietor,  listlessly. 
"I  guess  not,"  he  added,  with  an  air  of  carefully 
weighing  the  probabilities.  "I  hain't  got  any 
daughter." 


90  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

4 'Who  is  it,  then?" 

"  One  o'  the  gals,  I  p'sume." 

"I  discovered  that  for  myself.  But  what's  her 
name?  Fine-looking  she  is  ;  dark  — something  like 
a  g'.YPs3Y'  said  Whitcot ;  it  just  occurring  to  him  that 
there  was  a  hint  of  the  Romany  about  her. 

"Oh,"  said  Serious,  "I  guess  you  mean  Idy, 
don't  A'ou?  Idy  Hiss.  Yes,  she's  one  o'  my  gals." 

"  You  mean  you  employ  her?" 

"  Certin." 

"Then  what  has  she  got  to  do  with  that  young 
fellow  who  was  in  there  at  dinner?  —  man  with  a 
light  mustache,  dressed  in  gray,  and  looks  like"  — 
AVhitcot  stopped  short,  with  disrelish,  and  changed 
his  phrase.  "That's  to  say,  he's  about  my  size, 
you  know." 

Instead  of  answering,  Serious  put  his  head  on  one 
side,  and  asked  as  if  for  information  :  "  Look  here, 
3'oung  man,  ain't  you  consid'able  cur'ous?" 

"  Ain't  you  ?"  retorted  the  civil  engineer,  mimick 
ing  him  slightly. 

The  landlord  appeared  to  enjoy  this  hugely. 
Laughing  behind  his  closed  teeth,  he  retreated 
around  the  office-counter,  pretended  to  examine  his 
accounts,  and  then  said:  "You  mean  Riutyard. 
Yes,  j'es.  Well,  how  sh'd  I  know  what  he  's  got 
to  do  with  Idy?  Ask  him.  Or  ask  her.  Or  ask 
Timothy  Pride." 

4 '  Pride  ?  Hullo  !  That 's  the  name  of  the  people 
where  —  these  Prides  live  about  two  miles  from  here, 
up  the  hills,  don't  they?" 


RUDYARD.  91 

44  Thereabouts." 

Whitcot  drew  his  cigar  into  a  glow  again  and 
betook  himself  to  the  brick-floored  porch,  in  a 
thoughtful  fit.  The  coincidence  of  one  of  the  Prides 
being  thus  mentioned  as  interested  in  the  girl  Ida 
struck  him  as  exceedingly  odd,  and  he  believed  that 
quite  by  accident  he  had  stumbled  upon  some  un 
usual  complication  which  it  would  be  amusing  to 
watch  during  his  stay.  More  and  more  curious 
to  know  what  it  could  be,  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
accost  Rudyard  if  he  should  see  him  again.  That 
disagreeable  glance  which  he  had  received  now 
seemed  of  less  consequence  than  at  first ;  perhaps 
because  the  victory-giving  tea  at  dinner  had  braced 
his  nerves. 

While  he  was  meditating,  a  wagon  drove  up  to 
the  portico,  from  which  a  long-limbed  woodsman 
dismounted. 

"Do  }'ou  know  an}*thing  about  a  man  named 
Burlen,  in  there?  "  he  asked  shyly,  holding  his  shabby 
whip  in  one  hand  and  pulling  at  the  lash  with  the 
other.  He  e}'ed  Whitcot,  as  if  suspecting  that  he 
was  the  person  in  question. 

44  Yes,  I  know  a  good  deal  about  him.  He's  in 
side,  with  the  two  ladies.  Do  }'ou  want  to  see  him  ?  " 

"Then  you  ain't  him?"  said  the  man,  relieved  to 
find  that  Whitcot  was  merely  an  impersonal  stranger. 

"No.     Are  you  Mr.  Pride ? " 

"  Yes,  sir;  that's  my  name."  He  became  shy 
again,  on  being  identified. 

44  And  where 's  Timothy  ?  "  asked  Whitcot. 


92  IN    THE  DISTANCE. 

Pride  grinned  with  pleased  astonishment.  "Do 
you  know  Tirn'thy  ?  " 

"  You  can't  think  how  much  I  want  to  see  him !  " 
exclaimed  Richard,  feigning  the  delight  of  an  old 
comrade.  "  Mr.  Pride,  I  'd  like  to  shake  hands  with 
you." 

The  farmer  suspected  some  recondite  joke,  but 
extended  his  long,  leathery  palm  for  the  other's 
fingers  to  close  upon. 

"Let's  see;  what's  your  name?"  he  asked,  with 
that  air  of  having  momentarily  forgotten  something 
familiar  as  the  month  or  year,  which  his  class  flatter 
ingly  assume  towards  a  stranger,  when  they  wish  to 
be  on  their  guard.  Receiving  Richard's  answer,  he 
remarked  :  "  Guess  'twould  be  full  as  well  for  me  to 
go  and  look  for  Mr.  Burlen  ;  "  and  thereupon  strode 
slowly  into  the  hallway,  with  a  peculiar  gait  formed 
by  long  habit  in  walking  over  rising  or  uneven 
ground.  It  consisted  of  a  deliberate  step,  beginning 
with  a  general  dip  downward  of  that  side  of  the  per 
son  which  was  advancing,  followed  by  a  brief  pause 
to  recover  equilibrium,  and  an  economical  bringing 
up  of  the  hinder  leg. 

The  ladies  and  Burlen  were  soon  read}'.  Whitcot 
helped  them  bestow  their  small  parcels  in  the  wagon, 
and  waited  to  see  them  off.  "You'll  come  and 
look  at  our  place  to-morrow  or  next  da}',"  Edith 
said  pleasantly,  taking  it  for  granted;  "so  it's 
hardly  a  good -by."  He  watched  them  disappear 
over  the  upland  road. 

When  he  stepped  into  the  hall  again,  the  door  of 


RUDYARD.  93 

the  vacant  dining-room  was  open,  and  Rudyard  was 
standing  at  the  threshold  with  Ida  Hiss.  Remem 
bering  his  decision  to  speak  to  the  man,  Whitcot 
said,  without  embarrassment :  "  Perhaps  you  can  tell 
me  just  where  Tarbox's  house  is.  I  've  tried  to  find 
it  once,  but  I  did  n't  succeed ;  got  way  out  into  the 
fields  beyond,  in  fact.  Then  I  saw  this  —  this  young 
lady "  —  the  word,  in  such  ultra-democratic  appli 
cation,  cost  him  an  effort,  and  he  stopped  as  he  indi 
cated  Ida. 

Rudyard  instantly  turned  upon  her  in  fierce  jeal 
ousy.  "  What  were  you  doing  up  there,  I  'd  like  to 
know?"  he  demanded. 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  cowed.  Then  with  a 
careless  confidence  surprising  to  Whitcot  after  her 
declaration  of  fear:  "What's  that  to  you?"  she 
replied ;  going  on  with  disproportionate  passion : 
"  I  almost  wish  there  was  some  secret  about  it,  see 
ing  you  're  so  masterful.  You  'd  never  find  it  out, 
if  there  was  ;  no  —  not  if  you  killed  me  !  "  And  she 
set  her  teeth  hard,  so  that  between  her  half-parted 
lips  the}-  shone  with  a  determined  gleam. 

The  witness  of  this  outburst  between  the  two  was 
made  extremely  uncomfortable  by  it,  and  again 
regretted  that  he  had  come  into  the  girl's  neighbor 
hood.  But,  once  more  to  his  surprise,  Ida  's  vehe 
mence  rather  pleased  her  rude  admirer.  He  smiled 
almost  approvingly,  and  turned  his  attention  back 
to  the  engineer. 

"  I  'm  going  up  past  there  nryself,"  he  said.  "  It 's 
on  the  way  to  the  woollen-mill  where  I  work ;  and 


94  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

I'll  show  you  the  house."  Whitcot,  rather  bewil 
dered,  accepted  the  offer  and  began  to  wonder  at  his 
first  horror  of  the  man.  That  cold,  rigid  enmity  was 
no  longer  discernible  in  his  eyes,  though  there  was 
still  something  repellent  about  them. 

A  brief  walk  brought  Richard  to  his  goal,  —  a  neat, 
low  house  with  projecting  eyebrows  of  mossy-shingled 
eaves,  set  up  on  a  bank  and  approached  by  a  flight 
of  rickety  steps  under  the  shade  of  a  catalpa-tree. 
Mounting  the  steps  he  knocked  at  the  door,  but  got 
no  answer.  He  then  went  along  the  grassy  bank  a 
few  paces  and  halted  opposite  a  window  hung  with 
white  side-curtains,  between  which  he  could  look  in. 
It  was  a  low-ceiled,  antique  room  that  he  surveyed. 
Its  dusky  walls,  its  old,  gilded,  wooden  clock,  its 
stained  what-not  displaying  china  ornaments,  and  its 
colored  prints  in  frames  of  varnished  pine-cones,  all 
had  so  obsolete  and  confined  a  look  that  he  could 
almost  smell  its  musty  flavor  through  the  glass.  In 
the  centre  stood  a  dinner-table,  at  which  a  man  sat, 
with  his  back  to  the  light.  The  back  was  covered 
with  a  faded  waistcoat,  from  which  the  arms  pro 
jected  in  shirt-sleeves,  and  was  moreover  perfectly 
motionless.  The  man  had  either  dropped  asleep  or 
was  thinking  hard. 

He  turned  when  Whitcot  tapped  on  the  pane, 
presenting  a  middle-aged,  dusty  face.  The  front 
of  his  head  was  bald,  and  he  looked  as  obsolete  as 
the  room  itself.  He  might  have  sat  there  for  j^ears, 
letting  the  dust  gather  in  his  wrinkles  and  the  hair 
gradually  fall  from  his  forehead.  And  there  he 


RUDYARD.  95 

appeared  likely  to  remain  sitting,  for  at  first  he  made 
no  show  of  responding  to  Whitcot's  pantomimic 
references  to  the  door.  Finally,  however,  he  rose ; 
apparently  got  lost  somewhere  in  the  interior,  and 
found  himself  again  just  in  time  to  meet  Whitcot  at 
the  threshold. 

44  You  're  Mr.  Tarbox,  I  take  it?  " 

"Yes.     Be  you  the  young  man  from  the  city ? " 

Happy  distinction,  practised  in  the  country,  of 
conferring  on  one  individual  the  dignity  of  an  entire 
population  ! 

"Well,  no,"  said  Richard,  "I  come  from  Marie. 
But  then  I'm  the  young  man." 

"  Excuse  me  ;  I  forgot  you  were  coming.  I  was 
thinking  just  now.  It  sort  of  gets  over  me,  times." 

There  was  a  gravit}'  in  Tarbox's  manner  which 
prevented  Richard's  smiling  at  this  remark.  The 
man  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  confusedly  — 
to  remove  some  of  the  dust  of  the  }Tears,  perhaps. 

"  Well,  you  see  I  remembered  I  was  coming,  luck 
ily,"  said  the  engineer,  in  his  off-hand  way.  4'Is 
my  room  ready  ?  " 

Just  then  Mrs.  Tarbox,  a  buxom  housewife,  came 
to  his  relief.  "Time  for  you  to  go  to  work,  Titus," 
said  she  to  her  husband,  "and  don't  forget  to  put 
3'our  coat  on."  Having  thus  dismissed  him,  she 
showed  Whitcot  to  his  apartment.  "  My  husband 
gets  sort  of  far-away  some  days,"  she  apologized. 
"He's  thinkin'  about  his  son — our  boy  that  we 
lost." 

"  Lately?"  asked  the  young  man,  with  sympathy. 


96  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Fifteen  years  ago,  it  was.  He  died  of  consump 
tion." 

"  And  your  only  son?  " 

"  Yes." 

It  may  have  been  a  desolate-looking  photograph  in 
one  corner,  it  may  have  been  something  in  the  wo 
man's  manner,  that  prompted  Whitcot's  question : 
u  Was  this  your  son's  room?  " 

She  made  answer  affirmatively  with  her  head. 
"  He  was  very  fond  of  the  prospect  from  that  win 
dow." 

Reluctantly  he  glanced  at  the  view.  It  was  a  long, 
broken  stretch  of  woodland,  ending  with  a  glimpse 
of  Monadnoc,  which  presented  itself  in  one  of  the 
hundred  different  phases  that  a  mountain  shape 
takes,  from  different  points.  Looked  at  from  here, 
and  under  the  shadow  of  the  grief  to  which  he  had 
been  so  abruptly  introduced,  it  assumed  a  tragic, 
threatening  look  to  the  engineer's  eye.  For  an  in 
stant  he  seemed  to  trace  in  his  own  person  the  sen 
sations  of  the  dying  3*outh,  as  this  scene  faded  from 
before  him  —  the  last  of  earth.  Then  he  began  to 
busy  himself  unpacking  his  belongings. 

"It's  aivything  but  a  cheerful  welcome,  though," 
he  reflected.  "  I  might  as  well  spend  my  vacation 
in  a  tomb." 


A  DRIVE.  97 


IX. 

A   DRIVE. THE    DESERT. FOOTSTEPS. 

MR.  PRIDE'S  open  wagon  carried  its  occupants 
along  into  a  deepening  solitude.  After  get 
ting  up  one  hill,  it  descended  a  little,  rolling  with 
delusive  swiftness  over  a  bridge  that  spanned  the 
long-slanting  plash  of  a  brook  released  from  the  weir 
of  the  old  red  grist-mill  hard  by  ;  and  then  the  horse 
relapsed  into  his  habitual  decrepitude  as.  he  began  to 
plod  up  the  next  ascent.  Suddenly  swinging  around 
a  curve,  they  beheld,  some  distance  back  and  hud 
dled  far  down  in  the  valley,  the  village,  from  the 
chimneys  of  which  smoke  was  floating  dreamily  in 
the  afternoon  light.  Another  bend  disclosed  Mo- 
nadnoc.  The  atmosphere  was  like  crystal,  but  the 
mountain  was  far  enough  away  to  be  robed  in  stately 
blue. 

"  Every  time  I  see  it,  it  is  like  a  fresh  surprise  — 
as  if  I  'd  never  seen  it  before,"  declared  Edith. 

Again,  a  broad  screen  of  forest  or  a  ridge  of  the 
highland  would  shut  it  out  as  completely  as  if  it  had 
existed  only  in  fanc}r ;  but  the  travellers  found  a 
clew  to  its  position  in  the  windings  of  the  Contoo- 
cook,  glinting  blue  and  white  reflected  lights  from  its 
brown  current  deep  in  the  trough  of  the  land.  Al 
ways  up,  always  higher,  toiled  the  wagon ;  a  house 
7 


98  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

was  seldom  passed ;  the  surroundings  became  more 
unkempt.  It  arrived  at  a  small,  abandoned  farm 
house,  rapidly  going  to  ruin,  which  was  noticeable 
for  two  heart-shaped  openings  cut  in  the  faded  green 
door ;  and  here  Mr.  Pride  diverged  from  the  high 
way,  taking  a  smaller  road  that  struck  off  at  right 
angles  into  a  glen  more  secluded  than  anything  they 
had  yet  seen.  As  the  horse  slowly  drew  them  up 
the  arduous  track,  the  three  friends  luxuriated  in 
half-lit  vistas  of  the  woods  and  ardent  perfumes  that 
came  thronging  from  hidden  wild-flower  coverts  and 
the  hearts  of  the  gummy  pines.  They  listened  to  the 
greenlet's  fluting  in  the  recesses  of  interlaced  foli 
age,  always  silenced  when  the  softly-crunching  wheels 
came  anywhere  near,  and  resumed  with  tantalizing 
serenity  as  soon  as  they  drew  fairly  away  again. 
In  this  glen  the  air  was  cool  and  exhilarating ;  so 
unworn  and  beautiful  did  everything  look,  that  it 
shared,  seemingly,  the  heightened  vitality  which  the 
new-comers  felt  in  the  sublimed  and  delicate  air. 
The  small,  knotty  oaks  in  a  roadside  hollow,  tough 
as  they  were,  threatened  to  snap  in  twain  with  re 
pressed  energy;  the  birch  saplings  on  the  yellow, 
sandy  bank  rustled  with  a  quick,  light  accent  befit 
ting  the  thin  and  shifting  soil  in  which  they  rooted. 
Farther  on,  a  line  of  young  beeches,  thriving  lustily 
upon  the  slope  at  the  lower  side  of  the  road,  thrust 
their  flat,  leafy  branches  under  the  lowest  fence-rail, 
and  laid  them  fairly  on  the  road,  beneath  the  horse's 
feet.  They  paid,  thus,  an  unconscious  homage  to 
Edith,  strewing  her  path  with  green. 


THE  DESERT.  99 

"  'T  ain't  onty  but  a  short  while  ago  I  moved  up 
to  the  old  house,"  Pride  explained;  "end  's  folks 
mostly  go  reound  by  t'  other  road,  the  trees  kinder 
get  it  all  their  own  way  here." 

Mrs.  Savland  felt  the  force  of  this  observation,  for 
at  that  moment  a  bough,  leaning  out  from  above, 
came  near  shearing  off  some  of  the  elderly  adorn 
ments  of  ribbon  from  her  bonnet.  Indeed,  they  all 
had  to  bob  about  a  good  deal,  and  put  their  heads 
down,  to  avoid  untimety  decapitation.  But  as  they 
came  out  from  this  labyrinth  on  to  a  more  open 
stretch,  they  were  confronted  with  the  chief  surprise 
of  the  drive.  The  glen,  into  which  they  could  now 
look  freely,  was  full  of  irregular  boulders  and  clumps 
of  whortleberry,  the  central  depression  being  marked 
by  a  grass-hung  brook  which  had  a  trouty  look ;  but 
the  opposite  acclivity  showed  a  space  of  fifteen  or 
twenty  acres,  covered  with  bare,  unbroken  sand. 

"  A  real  desert !  "  cried  Edith,  in  amazement. 

"  And  here  in  the  midst  of  New  England  moun 
tain  coimtiy  !  "  Burlen  added.  "  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing,  and  should  hardly  believe  it.  How  did 
it  come  there,  Mr.  Pride?  How  do  you  explain  it,  I 
mean?" 

It  was  really  a  startling  sight,  this  great  barren 
spot  lying  dry  and  hopeless  amid  an  immensity  of 
flourishing  green  life.  A  few  yards  from  the  brook 
it  ceased  abruptly,  at  a  line  on  one  side  of  which  was 
meadow,  and  on  the  other  that  crawling  mound  of 
dead  and  inert  dust,  pausing  for  a  while  in  its  ad 
vance.  Encircling  it,  too,  at  the  crest  of  the  steep  was 


100  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

a  noble  forest-growth,  along  which  some  white  birch 
es,  cased  in  their  white-satin  bark,  stood  in  exquisite 
contrast  with  the  cool,  dark  verdure  behind  and  the 
tawny  glare  of  the  Sahara  patch  in  front. 

"Don'  know 's  it  needs  much  explaining*1  said 
Pride,  who  had  grown  less  and  less  sli3T  in  propor 
tion  as  he  got  farther  from  the  haunts  of  men.  "  It 
come  jest  from  sheer  neglect.  I  ain't  so  veiy  fear 
ful  old,  but  I  kin  remember  of  when  that  sand-heap 
wa'  n't  more  'n  a  little  teeny  piece  the  size  of  this 
wagon." 

"  How  long  ago  was  that?'* 

"  Maybe  twenty  year." 

"Then  it  might  have  been  stopped,  3-011  think?" 

"  Sartain.  All  they '(I've  had  to  do  was  to  plant 
small  firs  on  it  to  keep  it  from  spreadin' ;  or  put  on 
some  sile  and  grass  it  down." 

"  I  can't  understand  such  carelessness,  then,"  said 
Burlen,  energetically.  "  It  was  the  owner's  interest 
to  save  that  land  for  pasture." 

"Yep;  he'd  ought  t'  have  done  it,"  Pride  admit 
ted.  "But  I've  got  'beout  all  the  pastur'  and 
mowin'  I  kin  'tend  to,  now."  He  gave  a  yawn  at 
the  mere  thought. 

"Oh,  it  was  your  land  then,  was  it?"  queried 
Burlen,  taken  aback. 

"  M}T  uncle's.  It 's  mine  now,  or  anybody's  that's 
a  mind  to  take  it.  He  'd  ought  t'  have  done  suthin' 
'beout  it,  that's  sure."  Outwardly,  Pride  allowed 
himself  to  appear  abandoned  to  a  disgraceful  in 
difference  ;  but  the  next  moment  he  made  a  keen 


THE  DESERT.  101 

observation,  showing  like  other  Yankee  farmers  an 
alert  and  serious  intelligence  under  that  mask  of  dull 
stupor  which  generations  of  crafty  dickering  have 
bequeathed  them.  "Only  shows,"  he  said,  "how 
much  harm  comes  from  a  little  mite  of  evil,  if  3^011 
let  it  be.  There's  plenty  of  other  deserts  spreading 
in  this  country,  a  good  deal  more  dangerous  than 
that,  when  you  come  to  look  at  it." 

They  had  now  advanced  far  enough  to  discover  in 
one  corner  of  the  desert  a  strange,  gray  object  about 
six  feet  high. 

"  What  on  earth  is  that?"  inquired  Mrs.  Savland, 
peremptorily. 

Burlen,  who  was  near-sighted,  said  it  looked  like 
a  man's  figure.  "No,  it's  not  a  figure;  it's  too 
motionless  and  too  wild,"  he  continued.  "But"  — 
here  their  point  of  view  was  slightly  changed  — 
"see!  It  does  look  strangely  like  a  group  of  two 
people,  cut  in  stone,  —  a  man  and  a  woman." 

"I  think  it  may  have  been  the  trunk  of  a  tree 
once,"  said  Edith,  clearer-eyed  and  less  fanciful. 
"But  it's  all  hollow  and  withered  now.  The  roots 
are  bare,  and  stand  out  like  claws." 

"You've  hit  it!"  exclaimed  Pride,  with  a  pro 
digious  wink  at  the  other  two,  designed  to  hint  that 
there  was  nothing  like  the  sagacity  of  the  youthful 
feminine  mind.  "That's  just  what  it  is,"  he  con 
cluded.  "  I  rec'lect  the  tree  that  stood  right  thar. 
The  sand  come  squeezing  up  round  it,  and  choked 
it  and  killed  it;  and  since  then  every  bit  of  it's 
dropped  away  and  gone  clean  out  of  sight,  only 
the  stump  t'you  see  thar." 


102  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"Still,  there's  a  resemblance.  Don't  you  see  it, 
Miss  Archclale?  "  persisted  Burlen.  "  It  looks  like  a 
man  in  some  wild  costume,  holding  a  young  girl  in 
his  arm  and  bidding  her  a  long  farewell." 

The  farmer  could  not  refrain  from  a  furtive  smile 
at  this  touch  of  imagination. 

"Yes,  I  can  see  something  of  it,"  Edith  replied, 
in  a  self-possessed  manner. 

Her  aunt,  however,  considered  the  suggestion 
highly  improper.  People  in  real  life  might  embrace 
when  saying  farewell,  but  any  reference  to  the  fact 
was,  in  her  view,  very  bad  taste ;  especially  when 
applied  to  a  tree-stump. 

She  proceeded  to  change  the  topic  by  asking,  with 
a  purely  disinterested  and  intellectual  intonation : 
"What's  the  name  of  that  mountain  over  there, 
Mr.  Pride  ? "  She  made  a  lunge  with  her  parasol, 
directed  against  a  rounded  outline  off  beyond  the 
desert  and  the  woods. 

"Well,  some  call  it  Pack  Monadnoc  Mounting, 
and  some  call  it  other  ways."  He  added  with  a 
confidential  chuckle:  "But  the  mountings  'reound 
here,  the}' '11  answer  to  'most  any  name  you  give 
'em.  They  stay  right  there,  all  the  time." 

In  a  few  moments  they  came  in  sight  of  a  house 
black  with  age,  and  overgrown  with  wild  June-roses. 
4 'Is  that  the  place?"  Mrs.  Savland  inquired,  with 
abstract  resentment. 

"No,  there  ain't  no  one  lives  there,"  said  Pride, 
blandly.  It  was  merely  one  of  those  deserted  homes 
which  give  to  many  New  England  districts  an  air  of 


THE   DESERT.  103 

premature  decay ;  the  land  around  them  has  been 
wastefully  exhausted  and  the  places  have  been  for 
saken,  given  over  to  primitive  wildness  again  before 
the  surrounding  countiy  has  even  had  time  to  form  a 
history.  Two  hundred  years  of  industry,  and  then 
death  and  desertion  ! 

<k  That's  our  home  for  the  summer,  up  there,  I 
think,"  said  Edith,  looking  towards  another  and 
larger  square  edifice  on  a  grassy  knoll. 

"Right  again,"  Pride  ejaculated,  with  redoubled 
respect  for  her  acumen.  "  Such  as  it  is,  that's  the 
place.  All  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  you  won't  wish  't 
was  another  afore  you  git  through." 

Pride's  house,  dating  from  the  Colonial  period,  was 
finely  placed,  and  even  in  its  decline  looked  exceed 
ingly  inviting  to  our  friends.  There  were  shade-trees 
in  front,  and  a  thick  maze  of  wild  raspberry-bushes 
had  half-buried  the  fence  and  gate.  Behind  the 
house,  on  still  higher  ground,  white-tufted  bobolinks, 
wheeling  around  the  scattered  apple-trees  that  held 
their  nests,  uttered  a  wild  carol,  —  half  outcry  and 
half  song, — with  untiring  sweetness;  and  on  the 
nearer  side  a  row  of  slim  upspringing  locusts  threw 
their  ethereal  leafage  against  the  sky  so  ligktty  and 
so  high  up  on  the  slender  trunks,  that  they  acquired 
a  likeness  to  cocoa-palms,  and  lent  a  faint  aroma  of 
the  Orient  to  the  surroundings. 

Meanwhile  poor  Richard,  not  finding  his  room  at 
the  Tarboxes'  inspiriting,  set  out  for  a  solitary  walk 
when  the  afternoon  began  to  cool.  Natural^,  he 


104  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

took  the  direction  towards  Pride's  hill.  He  was 
tired  with  his  tramp  from  Medoosic,  but  he  fancied 
he  should  sleep  better  if  he  could  hover  for  a  few 
moments  in  Edith's  neighborhood,  even  without  see 
ing  her.  He  pushed  along  slowly,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  sit  dejectedly  under  a  convenient  tree  and  ask 
himself,  without  profit,  who  it  was  that  might  be  held 
responsible  for  his  present  depression.  His  arrival 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  mountain,  which  looked  so  fair 
from  the  Cleft,  had  been  very  unlike  what  he  had 
expected,  and  he  was  inclined  to  blame  some  one 
for  the  disappointment.  When  he  got  near  the 
big,  comfortable-looking  house  on  the  hill,  it  was 
sunset.  He  stood  not  far  away,  watching  the  day 
fade,  until  lights  began  to  warm  the  windows  of  the 
dwelling  here  and  there,  and  the  huge  barn  at  a 
little  distance,  beyond  some  elms,  began  to  look  like 
a  square  block  of  night-darkness  dropped  upon  the 
grass.  By  this  time,  two  or  three  cows  came  up  the 
narrow  road  which  had  brought  him  thither.  As 
the  leader  passed  the  raspberry-bushes  at  the  fence, 
the  fading  glow  threw  upon  her  chestnut  flank  the 
shapes  of  the  leaves  in  a  rich,  lace-like  pattern. 
While  Richard  was  looking  at  them,  a  young  man  in 
leather  breeches  and  a  blue  cotton  blouse  made  his 
appearance  as  the  ostensible  driver  of  the  cows,  car 
rying  a  goad ;  but  his  real  occupation  consisted  in 
humming  aloud  to  himself  a  song,  some  of  the  notes 
of  which  did  not  go  quite  right :  — 

"  I'd  ra-ther  be  with  Ro-sa-bel, 
A-swing-ing  in  the  lane ! " 


FOOTSTEPS.  105 

The  engineer  looked  once  more  at  the  house.  Be 
hind  it  the  sky  was  clear,  pale,  and  golden-green,  to 
the  height  of  the  roof;  but  above  that  line  hung  a 
long  black  cloud,  moving  from  the  south.  Off  to  the 
westward  Monadnoc,  now  growing  indistinct,  waited 
for  the  cloud,  read}'  to  wrestle  with  it.  There  was  a 
pervasive  solemnity  in  the  evening,  which  Wbitoot 
felt  without  being  able  quite  to  understand  it. 
Chilled  by  it  in  mind  and  body,  he  turned  to  go 
back  to  Savage's. 

A  few  rods  brought  him  face  to  face  with  another 
man.  "  Hullo  !  "  he  exclaimed,  recognizing  Rud- 
yard.  "  You're  out  walking,  too,  eh?  By-the-by, 
is  that  Pride's  house,  just  up  here?" 

"  You  know  it  is,"  answered  Rudyard,  unamiably. 
"  Have  n't  }'ou  just  been  there?  " 

"And  the  young  chap  driving  some  cows,  who 
just  passed  me,  must  be  Timothy,  I  suppose?"  con 
tinued  Richard,  quite  unperturbed,  but  eying  the 
other  narrowly. 

"  Think  likely."     Rudyard  nodded. 

"  Thank  you." 

Richard  went  on  his  way.  He  felt  more  easy  and 
companionable,  after  this  semi-hostile  encounter,  and 
moved  briskly  through  the  gathering  dusk,  while  the 
storm-cloud,  now  invisible,  advanced  with  a  roll  of 
thunder  upon  Monadnoc.  But  in  passing  the  deserted 
house  with  heart-shaped  door-lights,  at  the  junction 
of  the  roads,  he  thought  he  heard  some  one  walk 
ing  behind  him, — not  unpleasantly  near,  perhaps, 
but  enough  so  to  give  him  the  notion  of  quietly 


106  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

slipping  in  through  the  door  of  the  house,  which  he 
observed  was  ajar,  and  waiting  inside.  At  first  he 
heard  no  more  steps,  but  presently  they  began  again. 
In  another  moment  a  form  passed  by,  which  he  took 
to  be  Rudyard's,  and  was  again  lost  in  obscurity 
along  the  road. 

"I'd  rather  have  that  villain  in  front  of  me  than 
behind  me,  any  time,"  said  Richard  aloud,  needlessly 
indulging  his  habit  of  audible  self-communion. 

He  was  about  to  pass  out  again,  when  a  hand 
grasped  his  arm  from  behind,  in  the  dark  of  the  in 
terior.  "What,  in  the  devil's  name!"  he  began. 
But  a  woman's  voice  responded.  It  was  only  a  whis 
per,  but  he  knew  it  for  the  voice  of  Ida  Hiss. 

"  Wait !  wait !  "  she  said,  eagerly.  "  It 's  danger 
ous.  He 's  looking  for  me,  and  I  think  he 's  dogging 
you,  too.  Don't  go  out." 

"  Well,  upon  my  word  !  "  said  Whitcot,  in  an  un 
dertone  suited  to  the  darkness,  but  recovering  from 
his  first  astonishment.  "That's  a  cool  request! 
Do  3'ou  expect  me  to  pass  the  night  in  this  hovel  ? 
Will  you  tell  me  what  I  've  got  to  do  with  you  and 
with  this  unpleasant  Mr.  Rudyard,  that  should  make 
me  hesitate  to  walk  about  after  dark  if  I  choose  to? 
If  anybod}T  is  to  be  intimidated  on  this  occasion,  I 
rather  think  it  won't  be  nryself."  Though  his  tone 
was  cool,  the  elaborate  length  of  this  speech  betrayed 
that  he  was  excited. 

"  Well,  do  as  }'ou  like,"  whispered  the  girl,  who 
had  removed  her  hand.  "I  don't  want  you  to  get 
into  trouble.  That 'sail." 


FOOTSTEPS.  107 

Whitcot's  curiosity  began  to  revive.  "Now  I 
think  of  it,"  he  asked,  "  what  has  Timothy  Pride  got 
to  do  with  this  extraordinary  mess  that  you  all  seem 
to  be  in?  I  saw  him  just  now,  up  the  road." 

"Hush!"  answered  the  girl,  who,  unseen  in  the 
darkness,  spoke  with  a  direct  earnestness  she  had 
not  shown  during  their  odd  conversation  at  the  hotel. 
"  Rudyard  is  spying  on  him,  too." 

"  That's  what  I  suspected,"  said  the  engineer,  be 
coming  disgusted  with  his  position,  as  soon  as  his 
curiosity  was  satisfied.  "As  far  as  I'm  concerned, 
though,  you  can  count  me  out.  If  Rudyard  says  a 
word  to  rne,  we  shall  come  to  an  understanding  very 
promptly,  I  promise  3'ou." 

Hereupon  he  slipped  out  from  the  cottage  again 
and  started  towards  the  village  once  more,  with  a 
short,  internal  laugh  of  scorn.  If  it  had  not  been  so 
peculiarly  silent  and  lonely  up  here,  he  assured  him 
self,  he  would  never  have  taken  the  ridiculous  pre 
caution  of  stepping  into  such  a  doubtful  shelter  and 
meeting  so  very  dubious  a  fellow-hider  there. 

His  sense  of  security  did  not  last  long.  Once 
more  the  footsteps  from  behind  fell  upon  his  ear,  this 
time  fainter  and  more  cautious.  Riutyard  had  ap 
parently  missed  him,  waited  in  concealment,  and  was 
again  on  his  track.  Whitcot  was  soon  able  to  verify 
this  guess  ;  for  as  he  reached  a  rise  in  the  road  and 
looked  back,  straining  to  discover  something,  a 
flash  of  lightning  from  the  impending  storm  lit  up 
the  part  he  had  just  traversed.  Full  in  the  glare, 
standing  still  as  if  afraid  that  the  light  would  be- 


108  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

tray  him,  Ruydard  was  revealed,  not  twenty  yards 
away. 

Whitcot's  first  impulse  was  to  hail  him  and  insist 
upon  an  explanation  of  his  singular  conduct.  But 
this  would  perhaps  lead  to  a  useless  quarrel,  or  at 
best  would  intimate  some  apprehension  on  his  part. 
"Besides,  how  do  I  know  that  he  isn't  an  incipient 
maniac?"  he  asked  himself.  Wheeling  around, 
therefore,  he  prosecuted  his  walk  more  rapidly. 

Try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  prevent  that  cold- 
burning  glance,  which  the  mechanic  had  given  him 
at  dinner,  from  coming  out  of  the  dark  and  facing 
him.  A  quick  step,  a  vigorous  exercise  of  the  bodj', 
he  felt  sure  would  dissipate  this  hallucination.  Rain 
began  to  fall,  and  he  began  to  run;  the  pattering 
drops  drowning  the  sound  of  his  footfalls. 

He  was  glad  to  arrive  at  the  Tarboxes',  and  quite 
satisfied  with  his  room,  despite  its  associations.  His 
supper  of  hot  biscuit,  mince-pie,  cheese,  and  strong 
tea  was  not  the  best  preparation  for  sleep,  but  he 
was  so  tired  that  he  slept  deeply.  Nevertheless  he 
dreamed  heavily  that  night,  and  in  his  dreams  he  was 
pursued,  —  sometimes  by  Rudyard,  but  quite  as  often 
by  Ida  Hiss,  and  always  with  the  same  effect  of 
terror. 


WHISPERINGS  IN   THE  RAIN.         109 


X. 

WHISPERINGS    IN    THE    RAIN. 

THE  storm  which  began  on  the  night  of  the  arrival 
at  Pride's  lasted  several  d&ys. 

Even  on  that  evening  the  searching  damp  of  the 
rain  so  filled  the  house  that  Mrs.  Pride  — a  nervous, 
knotty  little  woman,  all  bone  and  sinew,  but  with  an 
expression  of  determined  cheerfulness  carved  upon 
the  stiff  muscles  of  her  face  —  insisted  on  lighting 
a  wood-fire  on  the  hearth  of  the  parlor  assigned  to 
Mrs.  Savland  and  her  niece.  Timothy  came  in  with 
an  armful  of  brush,  smiling  and  awkward ;  but  his 
cheeks  were  too  ruddy  with  health  to  show  the  blush 
that  was  pricking  him  under  the  skin.  The  brush 
was  followed  b}'  a  miscellany  of  sticks, — dead 
apple-boughs  picked  tip  from  a  neglected  orchard 
near  at  hand,  bits  of  maple,  locust,  and  ash,  with  one 
shining  piece  of  birch  and  a  couple  of  stout  oak-logs. 
The  fireplace  was  ample  enough  to  hold  them  all. 
But  as  the  first  sparks  flew  up  the  chimney,  a  loud 
throbbing  and  whirring  sound  came  through  the 
wall ;  and  strange  squeaks  and  sharp  notes  of  dis 
tress  rose,  muffled,  somewhere  within  the  brickwork. 

"  Oh,  what  is  that?"  cried  Edith,  getting  up  from 
the  little  corner-sofa  where  she  had  been  watch 
ing  the  fire-building.  She  was  really  alarmed,  and 


HO  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

Burlcn  felt  a  sweet,  hidden  pleasure  at  her  turning 
first  to  him. 

Mrs.  Savland,  in  a  high-backed  rocking-chair  that 
curved  above  her  like  the  shrine  of  some  weather- 
beaten  image,  lifted  her  feet  well  up,  and  uttered  a 
pathetic  cry  of  "  Mice  !" 

Bashful  Timothy  smiled  outright  in  broad  deri 
sion  ;  but  his  mother,  from  the  kitchen-door,  ex 
claimed,  pacifying!}' :  u  The  swifts  !  It's  so  long,  3-011 
see,  there  hain't  been  no  fire  in  that  chimbly.  Did  n't 
you  never  hear 'cm  gibbing  like  that,  young  lad}"?" 
she  said,  referring  to  Edith. 

"  Gibbing  r"  queried  Edith,  not  understanding  that 
Mrs.  Pride  had  a  way  of  catching  at  words  that 
suited  her  fancy,  whether  obsolete,  accepted,  or  still 
uncreated. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman ;  "  skrivverrting  and 
squeaking  when  they're  frightened.  It's  birds, 
you  know." 

"  Chimney-swallows,"  said  Burlcn.      "  That's  it." 

Mrs.  Say-land's  feet  came  clown,  on  the  instant: 
she  looked  as  if  she  would  have  denied  stoutly  that 
she  had  ever  lifted  them. 

"Oh,  yes,  now  I  see!"  said  Edith,  aglow  with 
pleasure.  "  We  never  had  them,  at  home."  There 
was  an  almost  childish  glee  about  the  young  girl,  as 
she  threw  back  one  hand  to  emphasize  her  sudden 
perception,  and  let  her  head  sink  for  an  instant 
towards  her  shoulder.  Timothy  ceased  grinning 
and  fell  into  hushed  wonder,  as  he  contemplated 
her.  But  presently  an  unlooked-for  solicitude  shad- 


WHISPERINGS  IN  THE  RAIN. 


owed  her  happy  face.  "  What  will  become  of  the 
poor  creatures,  now  that  we  've  driven  them  out  into 
the  storm  ?  "  she  asked  sadl}T,  looking  around  at  the 
rest. 

Then  it  was  Buiien's  turn  to  wonder.  He  thought 
how  strange  it  is  that  one  beautiful  woman  can  look 
beautiful  in  so  many  different  waj'S. 

But  as  the  first  flames  jagged  up  through  the  brush, 
scathing  the  wood,  then  vanished,  and  reappeared  in 
bodiless  brightness  above  it,  to  be  lost  in  the  black 
ness  of  the  chimney-  throat,  the  little  birds  grew  still 
and  were  forgotten.  The  blended  flames  danced 
faster  about  the  pile,  and  the  mingled  fragrance  of 
the  various  woods  stole  out  into  the  long,  spacious 
room.  Inspired  by  the  glow  and  cheer,  Burlen  made 
a  sally  into  the  raiiry  night  with  Timothy,  and  came 
back  with  some  short  branches  of  spruce,  which  — 
glittering  and  hissing  with  the  illuminated  drops 
—  he  flung  upon  the  blaze.  There  was  a  gathering 
of  soft  smoke,  a  sudden  fresh  spout  of  flame,  with 
much  fiery  snapping  of  the  green  wood  ;  after  which, 
the  branches  la}r  subdued  on  the  burning  logs,  with 
their  fringes  turned  to  red-hot,  scintillating  points. 
And  then  these  faded,  too,  dropping  into  the  deep- 
red  embers  below. 

The  morning  broke  in  showers,  or  rather  came 
into  sight  already  shattered  into  hopeless  drizzle  ;  so 
that  the  fire  was  continued.  Once  the  sun  shot  out 
its  ra}rs,  and  there  was  a  promise  of  clearing.  Then 
delicate,  elusive  sounds  began,  so  faint  that  it  was 
hard  to  tell  whether  they  arose  within  the  room  or 


112  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

without;  but  soon  they  defined  themselves  as  the 
rustle  of  fresh  drops  on  the  trees,  and  then  the 
stead}T,  quiet  downpour  recommenced.  The  two 
young  people  with  whom  we  are  concerned,  however, 
did  not  find  their  imprisonment  very  hard  to  bear, 
the  drowsy  purring  of  the  fire  gave  such  a  sense  of 
comfort.  There  may  have  been  other  reasons  for 
their  contentment.  Yes,  surely ;  there  was  the 
amusement  afforded  by  exploring  the  quaintness  of 
the  old  house. 

It  retained  the  dignitj"  of  the  da}*s  when  it  was 
built ;  it  was  planned  commodiously,  for  large  fami 
lies  and  hearty  living.  With  fewer  marked  inequali 
ties  now,  perhaps,  than  at  that  period,  New  England 
country  life  has  yet  shrunk  since  the  decline  of 
farming  prosperity ;  and  the  Prides  illustrated  this 
shrinkage  b}T  occupying  only  a  part  of  the  roomy  old 
mansion.  What  had  once  been  a  smooth-floored 
dining-hall  —  where  ma  ivy  a  gay  reel  had  been  shuf 
fled  through,  and  many  a  jovial  husking-party  or 
winter's  night  frolic  had  been  held  before  a  roaring 
hearth,  with  cider  and  home-brewed  ale,  apples, 
butternuts,  and  pop-corn  —  was  now  used  as  the 
kitchen  ;  the  kitchen  proper,  with  its  enormous 
chimney-place  and  rusty  crane,  being  left  empty  and 
cold,  under  a  leaking  roof.  But  Mrs.  Pride  kept  the 
present  kitchen  clean  and  shining,  with  shelves  full 
of  pans,  and  of  plates  among  which  were  some  that 
boasted  the  blue  blood  of  the  Mandarins.  In  the 
planked  ceiling  were  hooks  on  which  strings  of  dried 
apples  would  be  hung  in  autumn,  and  a  big  spinning- 


WHISPERINGS  IN   THE  RAIN.         113 

wheel  occupied  one  corner,  at  which  the  housewife 
spun  miles  of  yarn  that  she  afterwards,  at  odd  times 
and  even,  knitted  into  stockings  for  Timothy  and 
her  husband,  and  for  various  male  relatives  who  had 
migrated  to  the  cities.  "  Guess  they  would  n't  walk 
very  easy  through  this  mundacious  life  without  'em," 
the  old  woman  observed  in  her  deluded  pride ;  not 
knowing  how  carefully  this  foot-gear  was  laid  away 
and  never  worn  after  reaching  her  sophisticated  city 
kinsfolk. 

The  guests'  parlor  was  lined  with  a  blue  and  buff 
wall-paper,  —  an  early  work  of  the  present  century,  — 
depicting  Washington's  triumphal  entry  into  New 
York,  which  showed  how  very  literally  history  re 
peats  itself ;  for  at  every  few  feet  along  the  sides  of 
the  room,  General  Washington  came  cantering  into 
view  on  his  mettlesome  roan  steed  in  precisely  the 
same  posture  as  at  his  first  appearance,  with  his 
cocked  hat  held  at  exactly  the  same  angle  in  his 
hand,  and  accompanied  by  the  identical  blue  and 
buff  troops  who  supported  him  at  the  entrance-door. 
I  grieve  to  say  that  the  Continentals  suffered  occa 
sionally  by  these  historic  transitions,  the  previous 
stratum  of  incident  sometimes  lapping  over  and 
cutting  off  their  noses  in  the  most  unfeeling  manner. 
Even  the  General  did  not  escape  :  one  of  the  window 
frames  deprived  the  roan  charger  of  his  tail  and  one 
leg.  Edith  preferred  the  garret,  where  there  were 
a  few  remains  of  handsome  furniture, — bits  of  old 
costume  in  an  ancient  press,  and  a  supply  of  leather, 
with  shoe-making  tools,  still  used  by  Pride  in  domes- 
8 


114  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

tic  cobblery.  The  peculiarity  of  the  cellar  was  that 
it  contained  a  nest  of  that  sociable  kind  of  snake, 
the  house- adder,  —  spotted  reptiles  whom  Mrs.  Pride 
called  "  checkered-adda's,"  —  who  had  taken  up  their 
residence  there  while  the  house  had  been  vacant,  and 
now  declined  to  move.  Mrs.  Savland  was  in  con 
stant  dread  of  being  devoured  by  one  of  these  small, 
thin  creatures,  until  assured  that  they  had  a  consti 
tutional  dislike  for  parlors  and  bed-rooms,  being 
abandoned  to  a  low  taste  for  cellar-walls. 

Old  things  interest  young  people  because  of  their 
own  youth  ;  curious  things  because  of  their  vivacious 
curiosity.  I  don't  think  Miss  Edith  Archdale  and 
Mr.  Robert  Burlen  would  have  found  the  antiquated 
house  so  entertaining  if  they  had  been  older.  I  am 
sure  they  would  not,  if  either  of  them  had  inspected 
it  alone.  And  because  they  were  young  and  to 
gether,  other  sources  of  agreeable  occupation  were 
discovered. 

During  this  sulky  weather  Monadnoc  was  out  of 
sight.  The  strong,  watchful  mountain,  like  a  guar 
dian  above  the  surrounding  country,  had  seen  the 
storm  coming  from  afar ;  had  met  and  grappled  with 
it ;  and  now  it  was  shrouded  in  the  dense  mist  of  the 
conflict. 

Yet  Burlen  was  sensibly  affected  by  the  fact  that 
it  was  near  him.  Since  coming  to  this  place  he  had 
been  full  of  a  new  buoyancy,  which  appeared  to  grow 
out  of  the  knowledge  that  he  was  on  high  ground. 
It  was  more  than  that.  A  new  phase  in  his  life  had 
begun.  Something  had  been  achieved:  he  was  no 


WHISPERINGS  IN   THE  RAIN.          115 

longer  a  student  simpty,  but  had  risen  to  a  higher 
plane.  From  it  he  could  see  farther  than  he  had 
ever  seen  before,  and  his  painful  past  lay  in  a  deep, 
overshadowed  lowland  whither  he  was  never,  he  felt, 
to  return.  On  the  night  of  coming  to  Pride's,  a  vis 
ion  of  the  mountain  had  risen  upon  him  in  his  sleep, 
and  a  voice  had  rolled  in  organ-tones  upon  his  ear : 
"•  It  stands  above  all,  like  Fate  or  Providence,  and 
takes  no  share  in  human  vicissitude.  It  will  not 
help  us  unless  we  help  ourselves.  But  if  we  do  that, 
its  dumb  example,  its  skyward  striving,  will  lift  us 
up  —  and  to  what  heights  !  " 

As  for  Edith,  she  also  underwent  some  change  of 
mood.  Men  have  definite  aims  and  ambitions,  which 
are  aided,  modified,  or  ruined  by  some  woman  on 
whom  they  have  fixed  their  hopes.  Women  likewise 
let  the  current  of  their  lives  take  its  trend  from  some 
one  man.  There  is  this  difference  between  them,  — 
that  the  man  intrusts  his  fixed  purpose  to  the  woman, 
giving  her  a  despotic  power  over  it  for  help  or  harm  ; 
while  she  waits  for  him  to  define  her  purpose  for  her, 
and  then  changes  it  as  often  as  she  pleases.  Edith 
was  now  waiting.  She  had  a  fine  woman's  instinct 
for  reading  the  points  on  her  own  compass  by  the 
needle  of  a  true  man's  character ;  but  it  was  a  new 
thing  for  her  to  be  shut  up,  as  now,  with  a  young 
enthusiast  like  Burlen,  whom  she  had  always  taken 
seriously.  She  regarded  him  more  seriously,  with  a 
closer  attention  than  ever.  There  need  be  nothing 
very  personal,  she  thought,  about  this  interest.  She 
said  to  herself  that  she  would  "  study  "  Burlen  ;  and 


116  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

that  convenient  paraphrase  set   her   mind   at   rest. 
Still,  this  expectant  rest  was  deceptive. 

At  first  she  did  not  seem  to  have  a  great  deal  of 
leisure  for  his  society.  She  displayed  a  fitful  energy 
in  showing  Mrs.  Pride  how  to  cook,  under  the  guise 
of  practising ;  she  was  busy  in  her  own  room  ;  she 
must  write  to  her  father.  Mrs.  Savland  also  opened 
a  portable  bureau  of  correspondence,  and  began  to 
whiten  the  air  with  useless  letters,  — a  mode  she  had 
of  emploj'ing  dull  days.  But  she  felt  the  mountain- 
air.  A  mischievous  spirit  of  sleep  beset  her,  tripped 
her  pen,  and  began  disrespectfull}*  to  make  her  head 
nod ;  so  that  she  was  forced  to  retire  and  seek  a 
systematic  nap.  Edith  went  with  her,  to  see  th.it 
she  was  comfortable ;  leaving  the  clerical  candidate 
alone  in  the  parlor.  He  had  brought  a  book  or  two 
there,  but  when  Edith  disappeared  he  lost  his  interest 
in  these,  and  going  to  the  window  looked  out  at  the 
rain.  Watching  the  dim  gray  lights  of  the  abbrevi 
ated  vistas  seen  through  the  panes,  he  idly  occupied 
himself  with  the  dull  sparkle  of  the  driving  gouts  as 
they  fell,  and  the  gush  of  thin  water-jets  from  the 
leaf-points  of  lilac  and  raspberry  that  formed  a  hun 
dred  miniature  gargoyles.  The  beads  of  moisture 
stood  so  thick  and  white  upon  a  field  of  seeded  grass 
across  the  road  that  it  looked  as  if  it  were  in  flower. 
Suddenly  a  robin,  tired  of  waiting  for  fair  weather 
to  return,  sent  his  long  note  out  Into  the  rain  on  a 
venture,  to  see  if  that  would  hasten  matters.  But 
beyond  this  there  was  no  sound  other  than  a  splash 
and  dull  beat  of  drops,  mingling  in  the  low,  continti- 


WHISPERINGS  IN   THE  RAIN.         H7 

ous,  droning  hum  of  the  showers.  Burlen  listened 
to  it  as  if  it  could  tell  him  something  that  he  wished 
to  hear. 

All  at  once  Edith  came  demurely  back  from  her 
aunt's  room,  with  some  fancy-work  and  a  paper 
novel.  She  sat  down  by  the  fire.  Not  having  heard 
her  enter,  he  was  surprised  by  the  rustling  of  the 
pages,  and  immediately  turned  around.  But  as  she 
appeared  intent  on  the  book,  he  again  fixed  his  e}-es 
on  the  wet  scene  without.  After  a  moment,  laying 
her  book  and  work  aside,  she  rose  and  tried  to  re 
arrange  the  fire  with  the  tongs.  This  brought  him 
across  the  room. 

"  Let  me  do  that,"  he  said.  Noticing  that  she  did 
not  at  once  resume  the  book,  he  added,  experiment- 
alh',  giving  a  final  prod  to  the  fire:  "A  novel  is 
just  the  thing  for  this  weather.  You  're  fortunate  to 
have  a  fresh  one." 

"  It  does  n't  interest  me,"  she  returned,  with  that 
disdainful  coolness  which,  in  her,  seldom  offended. 
Burlen  foolishly  failed  to  see  that  if  the  novel  did  n't 
interest  her,  he  might.  He  began  to  move  away. 
"  What  were  those  books  I  saw  you  so  busy  at,  a 
little  while  ago?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  some  of  my  mill-wheels.  Theological 
things." 

Edith  brightened.  "There  might  be  some  satis 
faction  in  those,"  she  said,  with  a  somewhat  sudden 
and  remarkable  zest  for  serious  reading. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  them?"  He  was  de 
lighted,  —  not  at  her  showing  interest  in  the  books 


118  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

because  they  were  his,  but  at  the  discovery  that  he 
could  satisfy  a  wish  of  hers.  He  brought  one  of 
the  volumes  and  drew  a  chair  to  the  hearth-stone. 
"  This,"  he  said,  "  I  think  would  interest  you.  most. 
It 's  a  book  of  monkish  legends." 

"Am  I  so  very  monkish?"  she  asked,  with  a  gay 
laugh. 

"Monkish?"  he  repeated,  in  surprise.  "Oh,  I 
see."  And  he  passed  over  the  small  jest  so  easily 
that  Edith  was  crushed  by  a  sense  of  having  been 
rather  frivolous.  "The  reason  I  think  you'll  like 
them  is,  they're  odd  and  full  of  fancy.  Some  of 
course  are  absurd,  but  now  and  then  —  here's  one, 
for  instance,  I  was  reading  just  before  you  left  the 
room;"  he  opened  at  the  page;  "  and  I  was  going 
to  tell  you  a  strange  coincidence.  The  story  is  told 
in  the  Monasticon  Hibernicum  by  an  old  writer  named 
Mervin  Archdall.  Don't  you  see  ?  —  that 's  probably 
the  same  name  as  Archdale.  I  should  n't  wonder  if 
your  father's  family  were  connected  with  this  old 
chronicler." 

"How  curious!  Well,  tell  me  the  legend,  do. 
Is  it  a  good  one?" 

"It  mayn't  strike  you  as  it  does  me,"  he  said, 
fearing  that  she  might  laugh  at  him  again  if  he  grew 
too  much  in  earnest.  "  But  I  find  a  good  symbolism 
in  it.  It's  about  St.  Patrick's  staff,  —  it  was  holy, 
and  had  miraculous  powers,  you  know.  He  got  it 
from  an  ascetic  living  on  an  island  in  the  Tyrrhene 
Sea.  In  that  island  the  saint  found  some  men  in 
the  bloom  of  youth,  and  others  aged  and  decrepit; 


WHISPERINGS  IN  THE  RAIN. 


but  the  singular  part  of  it  is  that  the  old  men  were 
the  sons  of  those  who  appeared  so  young.  Is  n't 
that  suggestive?" 

"It's  very  fantastic,"  said  Edith,  by  no  means 
inclined  to  laugh.  "I  think  it  is  suggestive,  too. 
But  tell  me  what  you  make  of  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  an  instant,  and  then  his  gaze 
went  far  off.  He  was  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts. 
"  I  could  almost  write  a  sermon  on  a  thing  like 
that  !  "  he  burst  out,  suddenly  ;  once  more  facing 
her.  "The  explanation  given  for  the  fable  is,  that 
these  fathers  had  been  good  men  and  served  Christ. 
One  night  he  visited  them  in  the  guise  of  a  pilgrim 
stranger,  and  when  he  left  them  in  the  morning  he 
gave  them  a  blessing  that  clothed  them  in  enduring 
youthfulness.  Their  sons,  who  were  then  young, 
grew  to  be  old  and  wrinkled  ;  but  they,  on  the  con 
trary,  kept  their  young  looks.  Well,  that's  merely 
a  symbol  of  what  we  often  see,  —  children  prema 
turely  aging  in  graceless  modes  of  life,  while  their 
fathers  and  mothers  seern  to  remain  beautiful,  be 
cause  of  their  right  living  and  because  they  're  faith 
ful  to  high  trusts." 

"  Why,  that  's  a  lovely  thought,"  the  girl  re 
sponded,  with  a  pleasurable  sigh.  "And  I  don't 
believe  I  should  ever  have  got  it  out  of  such  a  story, 
by  myself." 

"  There's  another  way  of  looking  at  it,  too,"  he 
went  on,  ardently.  "  We  can  sa}T  that  the  new  gen 
eration,  the  young,  can  command  the  old,  if  the}' 
serve  God  well.  For  if  we  use  our  knowledge  wisely, 


120  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

getting  new  spiritual  meanings  out  of  what  has  gone 
before,  the  past  no  longer  controls  us  as  a  parent, 
but  we  control  it  as  we  would  a  child.  Sometimes 
I  think  that  we  who  are  the  youngest  almost  make 
the  past,  which  seems  so  much  older  than  we.  We 
at  any  rate  bring  it  to  the  light ;  and  our  larger  and 
purer  religious  conceptions  give  it  a  new  existence." 

"You  are  turning  me  all  around,"  said  Edith,  in 
pretty  distress. 

"  Well,  after  all,  that  notion  may  be  too  fanciful," 
he  confessed  ;  and  this  ready  yielding  to  her  instinct 
was  very  agreeable  to  her.  But  she  noted  well  the 
mounting  color  in  his  face  and  that  warm,  stirring 
light  which  always  filled  the  rich  brown  of  his  eyes 
when  he  was  roused.  "Here  —  here  would  be  the 
main  issue  of  the  sermon,"  he  continued,  repeating 
his  words  in  the  haste  with  which  he  rushed  on  to 
his  idea  —  "the  sermon  —  if  I  were  to  make  one. 
This  is  the  idea  to  be  got  out  of  it :  that  the  relations 
in  life  which  seem  established  and  unchangeable  — 
and  in  mere  physical  fact  are  unchangeable  —  do  not 
always  correspond  exactly  to  the  spiritual  relations. 
Authority  is  chiefly  vested  in  those  who  appear  to 
be  the  older  and  more  venerable,  but  often  it  is  the 
seemingly  young  who  exercise  a  control  in  spiritual 
progress.  When  new  truths  are  to  be  unfolded  it  is 
the  beardless  inen  who  must  take  the  lead,  and  act 
as  parents  to  the  patriarchs.  That 's  an  important 
principle ;  and  you  see  how  picturesquely  I  could 
illustrate  it  by  this  old  legend,  don't  you?  Then  I 
should  make  a  great  climax  by  bringing  this  home 


WHISPERINGS  IN   THE  RAIN.         121 

to  the  present  generation,  and  asking  whether 
we  shall  be  like  those  young  men  who  had  grown 
old,  or  like  the  old  men  who  were  everlastingly 
youthful." 

He  ended  with  a  full  gaze  into  those  large,  proud, 
quiet  eyes  that  were  fixed  upon  him.  He  sought  a 
response  to  his  own  enthusiasm ;  and  it  did  not  fail 
him. 

u  Oh,  Mr.  Burlen,  write  it !  Write  it !  I  see  now 
what  you  could  do  with  such  a  theme.  It  was  good 
of  you  to  tell  me  all  this.  But  you  must  tell  others  ! 
Can't  you  preach  that  for  your  first  sermon  here  — 
here  at  Savage's?  "  (She  was  already  falling  uncon 
sciously  into  that  way  of  his,  of  repeating  words 
when  she  grew  interested.) 

"  If  3'ou  think  so,"  said  he,  rising  and  pacing 
about  with  his  head  bent  to  meet  the  rush  of  mo 
tives,  thoughts,  and  hopes  that  came  upon  him  like  a 
blast.  "  If  you  think  so  !  "  There  was  the  slightest 
pressure  of  the  voice  on  that  now  precious  pronoun. 
"  Of  course  m}'  text  would  not  be  this  superstitious 
tale,  but  then  I  could  use  it.  In  connection  with 
that,  there  is  the  tradition  of  the  saint  having  drawn 
together  by  his  miraculous  staff  all  the  venomous 
creatures  there  were  in  Ireland,  bringing  them  to  the 
top  of  a  mountain,  from. which  he  threw  them  into 
the  sea." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  've  heard  that." 

Burlen  came  back  and  leaned  his  elbow  on  the 
old  3*ellowish  mantle-piece,  his  face  taking  on  some 
thing  of  a  visionary  quality  as  he  proceeded:  "  I 


122  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

don't  know  how  to  convey  to  you  what  I  've  felt  in 
coming  up  here ;  but  there  seems  to  be  a  positive 
effect  on  my  life  in  the  ascent  to  this  spot  so  much 
farther  up  towards  the  sky.  It  seems  to  be  lifting 
me  to  the  level  of  my  life-work.  Mountains  are 
places  fit  for  solitude  and  thought  and  prayer,  — 
places  to  work  deeds  in  less  miraculous  than  that 
doubtful  one  of  St.  Patrick's,  but  just  as  useful ; 
more  so.  It  would  at  least  be  a  good  thing  to  begin 
one's  career  in  these  high  places."  He  gave  a  half- 
smile.  "Now  I  could  connect  all  that  I've  been 
saying  with  this  idea  about  mountains  —  oh,  it  would 
develop  many  fine  meanings !  —  and  reach  the  peo 
ple's  hearts  by  making  it  all  centre  around  their 
own  Monadnoc." 

Again  he  looked  at  her  for  some  confirmatory 
sign ;  as  if  his  plans,  even  his  thoughts,  were  not 
complete  without  her  judgment.  This  time  the  re- 
pi}'  was  a  silent  approval :  no  words  were  needed. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  Edith  seemed  about  to 
sa\T  something  more,  which  should  continue  the 
strain  into  which  they  had  passed.  She  was  on  the 
verge  of  that  momentous  act  for  a  }*oung  woman,  — 
the  revealing  to  a  man  who  may  be  her  lover  some 
hidden  capacitj^  of  her  nature,  some  unexplored  re 
cess  into  which  the  glancing  lights  of  casual  inter 
course  have  thrown  no  certain  ray. 

The  shadowy  lines  on  an  azalea  are  merely  a  more 
sensitive  white ;  and  so,  though  this  exquisite  girl's 
outward  seeming  did  not  change  describably,  Bur- 
len  detected  in  her  expression  a  subtile  difference, 


WHISPERINGS  IN   THE  RAIN.         123 

as  of  a  gentle  stir  rising  from  depths  which  he  had 
believed  belonged  to  her. 

But  the  utterance  did  not  come. 

Fresh  from  her  brief  sleep,  Mrs.  Savland  at  this 
juncture  floated  into  the  room.  She  came  serene, 
but  her  first  glance  at  the  two  young  people  threw 
her  into  commotion.  With  masterly  swiftness  she 
concentrated  her  attention  on  the  only  resource  for 
effecting  a  diversion,  and  for  relieving  the  embarrass 
ment  she  knew  she  had  caused.  She  flew  forward, 
she  swooped,  she  bent  over  and  picked  up  something 
from  the  hearth.  "  Edith,  what  has  happened  to 
your  book?"  she  sternly  demanded,  holding  up  to 
sight  the  charred  corners  of  the  paper  novel,  which 
had  slipped  from  her  niece's  lap  without  being  ob 
served. 

Edith  was  not  deceived  by  her  aunt's  agitation  on 
behalf  of  the  neglected  author.  She  knew  that  Mrs. 
Savland  had  observed  everything.  In  fact,  the 
elder  lady  had  discovered  upon  the  two  young  faces 
a  still  but  slightly  tremulous  light,  which  she  was 
aware  could  not  proceed  from  the  crumbling  fire 
alone  ;  and  in  that  light  she  had  read  things  of  which 
Edith  herself  was  as  yet  only  dimly  conscious. 

"  Mr.  Burlen,"  continued  Aunt  Grace,  "  if  you 
are  going  to  your  room,  could  you  get  us  some  wood 
for  our  fire,  first?  I  don't  think  Timothy  is  about." 

Her  niece  listened  to  this  speech  with  a  disappro 
val  which  Mrs.  Savland  saw  clearly  enough,  but 
calmly  disregarded.  Burlen,  however,  received  her 
light  insolence  in  the  simplest  way  ;  brought  a  few 


124  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

birch-sticks,  saying  they  were  the  best  he  could  find  ; 
and  then  withdrew. 

Edith  took  up  her  fancy-work,  without  further 
noticing  Aunt  Grace's  presence ;  and  Mrs.  Savland 
went  to  the  writing-table,  where  her  pen  began  to 
squeak  in  an  unconcerned  manner.  The  rain  outside 
went  on  whispering.  To  the  elder  woman  its  tone 
was  ominous.  She  had  meant  to  pla}T  Whitcot  to 
the  best  of  her  ability  against  Burlen,  until  Ravling 
should  get  into  the  field  again.  But  the  storm  had 
prevented  Whitcot's  effecting  a  junction  with  her, 
so  to  speak ;  and  she  had  thus  been  deprived  of 
even  this  weak  auxiliary.  Meanwhile  the  enemy 
—  Burlen  —  was  making  rapid  headwa}',  and  must 
be  checked.  Perhaps  she  could  divert  his  attention 
by  deploying  another  young  woman.  She  laid  down 
her  pen. 

"I've  been  thinking,  Edith  dear,  that  we  shall 
be  rather  too  solitary  up  here,  —  especially  in  bad 
weather.  Don't  you  feel  it?  " 

Edith  said,  coldly,  that  she  had  not  felt  it. 

"No,  I  dare  say  not  3~et ;  you  have  been  so 
absorbed  "  After  pausing  a  second  or  so,  to  let  the 
sting  work  in,  Mrs.  Savland  glided  on,  innocently : 
."But  if  3'ou're  going  to  be  a  good  deal  taken  up 
by  various  interests,  it 's  all  the  more  reason  why  I 
should  have  two  companions  to  depend  on,  instead 
of  one.  What  do  }'ou  think  of  getting  Viola  Welsted 
to  leave  Willowbridge  at  once  and  come  to  make  us 
a  visit  now?" 

"Let's   write  to  her  by   all   means,"  answered 


WHISPERINGS  IN   THE  RAIN.         125 

Edith  with  charming  acquiescence ;  seeing  through 
her  aunt's  feeble  wiles  without  effort. 

So  she  sat  down,  and  with  great  readiness  played 
primo  to  her  aunt's  secondo,  in  a  little  epistolary 
duet. 

The  rain  went  on  whispering,  day  and  night. 
And  what  did  it  say  to  the  young  girl's  heart? 
Was  it  not  an  apt  accompaniment  to  moods  half 
plaintive,  yet  sweet  and  refreshing  like  itself?  She 
had  begun  to  wonder  at  the  gently  awakening  influ 
ence  that  Burlen  exerted  over  her.  The  daughter  of 
a  learned  divine  who  had  taught  religion  as  many 
3Tears  as  she  had  lived,  why  had  she  always  felt  the 
most  of  her  father's  doings  and  thinkings  to  be  parts 
of  a  system  with  which  she  had  little  concern,  when 
this  comparatively  untrained  graduate,  entering  on 
the  same  field,  could  so  fire  her  with  enthusiasm  to 
follow?  Was  there  really  all  this  difference  between 
the  sympathy  of  youth  and  the  sympathy  of  age? 
Perhaps  it  had  something  to  do  with  what  Burlen 
had  been  saying  about  youth  and  age.  In  short, 
inquiring  thoughts  and  dim,  sweet  premonitions  that 
she  could  not  measure  were  borne  in  upon  her  mind 
as  the  soft,  persistent  throbbings  of  the  shower  fell 
upon  her  hearing  and  mingled  with  her  pulse-beats. 

The  restless  rain  had  something  to  sa}T  to  Burlen 
as  well,  though  it  was  only  an  echo  of  what  was  in 
his  own  mind.  After  Mrs.  Savland's  hint  that  the 
fire  in  the  historical  parlor  was  an  exclusive  prop 
erty,  he  kept  pretty  closely  to  his  own  room.  He 
suffered  intensely  from  any  slight  of  this  kind ;  but 


126  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

he  kept  his  annc^ance  to  himself.  Nevertheless  it 
aided  in  importing  into  the  refrain  of  the  rainfall 
many  notes  of  doubt  and  gloom,  —  gloom,  when  he 
thought  of  his  lost  sister  and  the  connection  which, 
through  her,  might  even  now  exist  between  himself 
and  some  unutterable  shame  ;  doubt,  when  he  won 
dered  whether  a  woman  bred  very  differently  from 
himself,  and  with  no  dreary  secrets  in  her  heart, 
could  ever  fuse  her  life  happily  with  his. 

At  last,  late  one  afternoon,  the  rain  and  fog  passed 
off.  The  sun,  just  disappearing,  flung  its  light  out 
in  that  peculiar  wan  glare  which  does  not  fill  the 
whole  atmosphere,  but  strikes  hillsides  and  house 
tops  here  and  there,  giving  them  a  brief,  dazzling 
distinctness  as  of  some  bright  apparition.  The 
patches  of  pine  and  the  heavier  woods  of  the  valley 
lay  drenched  and  dark,  like  deep  shadows  in  the 
scene.  But  the  pale  orange  splendor  irradiated  as 
if  with  some  strange  chemical  flame  a  large  elm 
between  the  house  and  barn,  which  had  the  peculi 
arity  of  a  great  side-bough  curving  out  from  the 
trunk  and  then  running  up  so  high  and  straight  that 
it  gave  the  whole  tree  a  rude  likeness  to  a  harp. 
The  leaves  were  still  shining  with  the  wet ;  the  hol 
low  drilling  of  a  woodpecker  was  heard  among  the 
upper  branches,  and  then  Burlen  saw  the  black  and 
wrhite  bird  walking  verticall}7  up  the  trunk  while 
uttering  a  dank,  reedy  piping,  which  seemed  to 
have  imbibed  the  quality  of  the  recent  rain.  Mo- 
nadnoc  stood  out  clear  and  calm  in  the  west ;  full 
of  a  deep  blue  color  that  gave  it  the  character  of  a 


WHISPERINGS  IN   THE  RAIN.         127 

precious  stone.  Small  birds  chirped  excitedty,  dash 
ing  by  the  harp-shaped  elm  with  .slim  graj*  breasts 
glowing  in  the  watery  radiance.  The  swallows  came 
crowding  back  to  the  fireless  chimney.  And  restless- 
winged  hopes  came  back  to  Burlen. 


128  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XT 

A   CHILD    OF    NIGHT. 

WHILE  the  rain  had  been  murmuring  its  vague 
responses  to  the  reveries  of  Edith  and  Bur- 
len,  up  on  the  hill,  that  empty  house  at  the  cross 
roads,  with  its  two  quaint  heart-shaped  openings  in 
the  door,  —  that  vacated  residence  whereof  we  have 
already  taken  notice,  which  had  fallen  many  degrees 
below  the  "  To  Let  "  stage,  —  became  the  scene  of  a 
very  peculiar  interview. 

Timothy  Pride  and  Ida  Hiss  had  met  there,  un 
known  to  an}'  one.  Those  odd  apertures  in  the  door, 
which  had  once  helped  to  brighten  the  little  home 
within,  now  looked  like  crude  mementoes  of  some 
exiled  pair,  who  in  going  hence  had  left  the  imprint 
of  their  wedded  love  behind  them.  But  through 
them  the  cold  wind  rushed,  and  played  mockingly 
around  the  two  young  persons  who  had  come  to 
a  rendezvous  in  the  desolate  interior,  where  the 
watery  downpour  dripped  upon  the  decaying  floors 
and  made  such  grotesquely  sorrowful  sounds  about 
the  ruined  eaves. 

"Ugh!  It's  terribly  cold  here,"  ejaculated  Ida, 
drawing  closer  around  her  a  coarse,  brown  cloak 
which  covered  her  down  to  the  bottom  of  her  short 
skirts. 


A    CHILD   OF  NIGHT.  129 

"  I  suppose  you'd  like  me  to  put  imr  arm  around 
you,  to  keep  the  cold  out,  hey?  Or  mebbe  dance  a 
jig  with  you?"  was  Timothy's  boorish  response, 
made  in  a  tone  that  was  not  alarming  nor  indicative 
of  impertinence,  but  showing  that  he  was  desirous  to 
satisfy  a  rough  kind  of  psychological  curiosity. 

"Why  do  you  always  say  such  bold,  rude  things 
to  me?"  asked  the  girl,  with  an  air  of  hurt  self- 
respect  that  made  him  rather  sorry  for  his  remark. 
Yet  her  eyes  danced  in  a  way  that  led  him  to  believe 
she  was  amused  and  satisfied.  "  Do  you  think  I  'm 
the  kind  of  girl  to  like  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  kind  you  mean,  nor  what 
kind  of  girl  }*ou  are,  nor  what  you  like,  any  way," 
complained  Timothy.  "  I  wish  you  would  n't  always 
be  so  queer,  and  not  let  a  fellow  know  what  you  're 
after." 

"But  supposing  I  don't  know,  myself,  what  I'm 
after?" 

"Then  you  oughtn't  to  fool  with  other  folks," 
said  the  boy,  sullenty.  "  I  don't  see  but  what  you 
was  well  enough  off  before  I  knew  you ;  and  so  was 
I.  There  's  Rudyard  would  bet  his  eye-teeth  on  3^0', 
and  Ann  Fernlow  is  good  enough  for  me.  Mother 
expects  me  to  go  courtin'  her,  and  so  does  Ann's 
mother,  herself.  'Sides,  she  cares  a  sight  more 
about  me  'n  you  do." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  returned  Ida,  sneering. 
Then  her  whole  mien  changed  abruptly ;  and,  throw 
ing  aside  her  cloak,  she  thrust  her  face  forward,  ex 
claiming  ardently:  "You  don't  know!  You  don't 
9 


130  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

know  !  Ah,  Timothy  Pride,  how  many  girls  would 
brave  what  I  do,  to  meet  you  in  a  lonely  place  like 
this?  Would  Ann  Ferulow  come  out  here,  I  sh'd  like 
to  know?  Why  isn't  she  here  now,  then,  'stead  of 
me?  And  then  there's  Ructyard  besides,  almost 
read}7  to  murder  me  if  he  knew.  I  think  it's  you 
that 's  queer !  There  ain't  many  men  that  would  be 
blind  and  deaf  and  dumb  and  —  everything,  after 
I  'd  done  so  much." 

Without  giving  him  time  to  recover  from  this 
tirade,  the  girl  retreated  to  a  corner  of  the  room ; 
and  there,  the  anger  of  the  previous  moment  sub 
dued,  she  quenched  her  feelings  with  tears  and 
stood  sobbing. 

"Grim  thunder!"  muttered  Timothy,  who  had 
his  mother's  gift  for  phrases.  ' '  I  s'pose  I  am  pootty 
consid'able  of  a  fool ;  'specialty  'beout  gals.  How 
come  3'ou  to  take  a  fancy  to  such  a  big  fool  as 
me,  any  way?"  he  demanded,  raising  his  voice  as 
if  indignant  at  her  lack  of  discrimination  in  this 
respect. 

She  made  no  response,  but  continued  leaning 
against  a  tenant-post  of  the  old  house,  sobbing. 

Timothy  drew  nearer.  "Now  please  don't  take 
on  like  that,"  he  besought  her,  penitently.  "Tell 
me  something  I  can  do  to  make  you  feel  better,  Ida," 
he  went  on,  approaching  still  nearer  and  laying  one 
of  his  ros}'-brown  hands  on  her  cloaked  shoulder. 

She  stopped  sobbing,  and  hearkened  to  the 
changed,  tender  voice  in  which  he  addressed  her. 
To  her  restless  nature,  dwelling  in  an  atmosphere  of 


A    CHILD   OF  NIGPIT.  131 

sultry  passion,  this  tone  seemed  like  a  fresh  breeze 
blowing  down  from  clover-pastures.  "Keep  your 
hand  there,'*  she  said,  softl}T.  "But  you  mustn't 
put  your  arm  round  me,  as  you  said  just  a  minute 
ago." 

There  was  something  commanding  in  her  tone, 
which  caused  Timothy  to  take  even  his  hand  away. 
He  perceived  now,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  was 
dealing  with  a  wild  nature  that  none  the  -less  had 
compulsory  laws  of  its  own,  and  that  he  had  done 
her  wrong  by  his  previous  trifling  tone.  An  impetu 
ous  desire  seized  him  to  run  a  fresh  risk  ;  to  approach 
her  in  a  more  serious  waj'. 

"  What ! "  he  exclaimed,  recklessly,  }'et  with  a 
more  respectful  manner  than  hitherto.  "Don't  you 
want  me  to  make  love  to  you?  Perhaps  you  think  I 
don't  know  how.  Well,  I  swan  it's  so.  I  never 
made  love  to  any  one  yet.  But  I  guess  I  could  if  I 
tried." 

The  girl's  tears  had  been  unbidden,  but  they  were 
quite  dried  now.  She  looked  at  him  with  keen 
humor,  and  then  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh,  holding 
her  hands  on  her  hips. 

"Try  it,"  she  said,  abruptly.  "But  I  tell  you 
beforehand  that  perhaps  I  sha'n't  listen  to  what  3'ou 
say,  at  all." 

"Oh,  rough  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "Don't  you 
know  I  can't  talk,  if  you  start  like  that?  It's  like 
tryin'  to  whistle,  when  you're  laughin'.  You  see, 
you  take  all  the  limber  out  of  me,  and  make  me  feel 
as  dry  as  old  harness-leather." 


132  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Don't  tell  me  it's  me  that's  throwing  cold  water 
on  you,"  she  returned;  "it  comes  in  through  the 
roof."  She  pointed  to  the  ragged  little  peep-holes 
which  the  sky  had  made  for  itself  through  that  cov 
ering.  "  But  then  perhaps  you  had  n't  better  go  on, 
anyhow.  Don't  you  know  your  mother  would  be 
angry  if  you  made  love  to  me?" 

14 1  don't  care  if  she  is,"  he  declared,  not  perceiv 
ing  her  satire.  "But  what's  the  good  of  my  mar 
ry  in'  you,  when  you  come  to  look  at  it?" 

"  Hush  !  "  She  gave  this  single  syllable  of  scorn, 
before  retorting  :  "  That 's  for  you  to  find  out  —  what 
good  it  is  ! "  She  tapped  one  foot  on  the  floor,  writh 
several  rapid  beats,  and  added;  "And  who  said  I  'd 
ever  marry  you  ?  You  talk  as  if  you  could  settle  it 
in  a  minute." 

The  boy  had  a  healthy  instinct  that  this  clandes 
tine  playing  with  fire  was  outside  of  the  normal  limits 
of  his  life  ;  yet  the  interest  in  him  which  Ida  had  for 
a  long  time  shown  was  flattering.  He  was  fascinated 
by  her ;  yet,  while  half  giving  up  to  her  spell,  a  timid 
recoil  would  constantly  draw  him  away,  —  as  a  bold 
swimmer  in  the  sea,  feeling  sudden  currents  of  cold, 
thinks  of  drowning,  and  strikes  out  in  haste  for  the 
shore.  "  I  won't  ask  you  to  marry  me,  nuther,"  he 
announced  firmly,  "until  I've  thought  onto  it  some 
more.  I  don't  believe  you'd  do  it  if  I  did  ask. 
Eudyard  would  n't  like  it." 

"Rudyard?"  echoed  the  girl,  sarcastically. 
"Who  cares  for  him?  Is  he  my  master?  I  never 
promised  him  anything.  I  ain't  bound  to  him,  and 


A    CHILD   OF  NIGHT.  133 

don't  mean  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him,  unless 
I  please.  See  !  "  She  caught  up  a  breadth  of  her 
dress,  as  she  spoke.  "I'd  tear  him  up  just  like 
that,  if  I  chose."  And,  taking  the  stuff  firmly  in 
both  hands,  she  rent  it  without  compunction. 

44  If  you  could,"  put  in  Timotlry,  pretending  not 
to  be  impressed,  though  secretly  very  much  so; 
44  Rudyard  ain't  to  be  torn  as  easy  as  women's 
clothes.  If  it  wasn't  for  him,  though,  I — " 

44  What?"  asked  Ida,  carelessly. 

44  Now  tell  me,"  he  inquired  methodically,  looking 
out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  as  if  calculating 
chances  ;  44  would  you  marry  me,  if  I  asked  you?" 

44 1  sha'n't  tell  }*ou.     You  '11  have  to  ask  me  first." 

44  Well,  then,"  he  said,  turning,  -and  speaking 
with  an  intensity  that  surprised  himself,  44  will  you 
marry  me  ?  " 

44  Yes,"  said  Ida,  quietly. 

Timoth}7  was  rather  stunned.  44  Wrhere  should  we 
go  to?"  he  asked,  hesitatingly;  feeling  that,  once 
bound,  they  would  stand  completely  alone. 

"Wherever  you  like,"  she  answered,  in  a  docile 
tone. 

"Haven't  you  any  folks?"  he  questioned. 
44  Where's  your  real  true  home?" 

The  girl's  head  drooped :  she  had  no  answer.  A 
shiver  passed  through  Timothy.  Ida  became  in 
stinctively  aware  of  it,  lifted  her  face  again,  and 
came  swiftly  towards  him.  '•'•Ton  would  make  me  a 
home,"  she  said,  earnestly.  u  I  haven't  any.  I 
can't  tell  3*011  where  I  came  from.  But  what  does 


134  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

that  matter?  If  3*011  came  straight  out  of  the  woods, 
and  I  had  never  seen  you  before,  I  should  like  3'ou 
just  as  much  as  I  do  now.  More,  perhaps ! "  she 
ended,  with  a  touch  of  her  natural  sauciness :  at 
which  the  young  fellow  breathed  freer. 

An  idea  occurred  to  him,  which  had  its  charm. 
"Are  3*ou  a  g3Tpsy,  Ida?"  he  asked.  "I  knew  a 
little  g3*pS3T  girl  once  —  long  ago,  when  I  was  a 
shaver.  They  came  through  here  more,  those  times. 
She  was  a  ga3T  piece ;  she  had  a  dark  skin,  too,  like 
3*ours.  I  could  show  3'ou  the  old  road,  over  by  the 
desert,  where  the  g3'p§3'  tent  was.  It 's  hidden  in 
the  woods,  most  of  the  way  from  here  to  Canada ; 
and  the3T  came  in  a  wagon  with  a  white  top."  Tim- 
oth3'  was  not  romancing.  G3*psies  are  found  in  the 
most  unexpected  localities,  Irj'  those  who  keep  their 
e3'es  open  ;  and  the  existence  of  a  well-known  tribe 
of  them  in  New  Hampshire,  earlier  in  the  present 
century,  is  attested  b3~  an  anecdote  in  the  memoirs 
of  Daniel  Webster. 

Timothy's  eyes  glowed,  as  he  recalled  that  memory 
of  the  Romany  child,  and  Ida  was  quick  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  "Perhaps  I'm  that  same  little 
gypsy  girl,"  she  cried,  gaily,  "grown  up  to  be  a 
woman  !  And  now  I  've  come  back,  you  see." 

"  That  ain't  so,"  he  returned,  a  shadow  descending 
upon  his  face.  "  I  know  it  ain't  so." 

"Oh,  you  tire  me  all  out,"  sighed  Ida,  "with 
3Tour  changings  and  choosings.  I  'm  afraid  3*011 
won't  make  me  a  very  good  husband." 

"I  ain't  a-going  to  try,"  Timotlry  answered  dog- 
gedh*.  "  I  did  n't  promise.  I  only  asked  3*011." 


A    CHILD   OF  NIGHT.  135 

"All  right,"  she  said;  "I  don't  want  to  talk  to 
you  any  more  to-day.  You  must  go  home,  now. 
It's  time." 

He  hesitated ;  disliking  to  be  ordered,  and  also  re 
penting  of  his  apparent  want  of  gallantly. 

"  Go  !  "  she  reiterated,  gloomily.  "  I  must  walk 
back  to  Savage's  ;  and,  before  I  start,  you  '11  have  to 
be  out  of  the  way." 

"  When  am  I  going  to  see  you  again?"  he  in 
quired,  wistfully. 

"  How  can  I  tell?"  Ida  assumed  a  tone  of  indif 
ference.  "Perhaps  you  won't  ever  see  me  again. 
This  storm's  going  away  soon,  but  it'll  come  back. 
If  I  go  after  it,  I  sha'n't  come  back.  I  know  the 
paths  in  the  woods,  and  the  woods  know  me.  May 
be  I  shall  turn  gypsy." 

"I'd  almost  like  to  do  that  nryself,"  said  the 
foolish  youth.  "  Wait  till  I  have  time  to  think. 
You  don'  know  but  I  '11  go  with  you." 

"You  haven't  got  grit  enough,"  she  returned 
scornfully.  Yet  there  was  a  relenting  accent  in  her 
voice. 

"  Well,  good-by  !  "  he  exclaimed  abruptly. 

"  Good-by,  harness-leather.  Old  harness-leath 
er  ! "  she  cried. 

He  went  out  awkwardly,  and  the  door  closed  be 
hind  him.  She  stood  looking  at  it.  How  empty 
and  wretched  those  two  little  mimic  hearts  cut  in  the 
woodwork  looked  now !  She  clasped  her  hands 
convulsively,  the  fingers  straining  at  each  other. 
She  was  mortified ;  but,  besides  that,  she  felt  herself 


136  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

abandoned  to  a  hopeless  solitude,  unless  she  could 
hold  the  innocent-minded  young  woodsman  who  had 
just  left  her,  in  the  bonds  of  that  admiration  which 
he  had  at  times  confessed.  From  such  solitude  there 
could  be  no  escape,  save  by  some  rough  downward 
path  along  which  Rudj'ard  would  most  probably  be 
her  unwelcome  guide.  His  uncouth,  savage  nature 
was  but  too  well  in  accord  with  the  slumbering  wild- 
ness  in  herself  to  make  her  willing  to  }'ield  to  such  a 
fate.  In  her  instinctive,  inarticulate  way  she  knew 
that  when  once  she  had  surrendered  to  him,  his  ir 
reverent  mastery  would  enclose  her  life  as  in  an  iron 
cage.  What  would  happen  to  her  then,  with  this 
burning,  bursting  desire  that  lay  forever  tossing  at 
the  bottom  of  her  heart  for  some  sweeter,  purer,  and 
higher  existence  than  she  had  ever  known?  She 
clung  to  the  thought  of  Timothy  —  ludicrous  though 
it  may  appear  to  sophisticated  observers  —  as  her 
only  chance  of  being  raised  to  a  happier  and  truer 
wa}T  of  life.  His  clean  and  supple  youth,  his  un 
spoiled  freshness,  attracted  her  overpoweringly.  She 
would  have  been  willing  to  toil  and  suffer  long  as 
life  should  last,  for  such  a  man.  He  represented  to 
her,  in  fine,  her  aspiration. 

Yet  to  her  he  was  as  far  away  as  Edith  was  from 
Burlen,  or  the  tip  of  Monadnoc  from  any  one  who 
should  stand  gazing  at  it  from  the  Cleft.  Poor  Ida's 
striving  must  of  course  impress  persons  of  fastidious 
position  and  settled  antecedents  as  a  matter  hardly 
deserving  of  notice ;  at  the  least,  very  unpleasant 
to  contemplate.  But  to  her  it  was  something  quite 


A    CHILD  OF  NIGHT.  137 

different.  Who  can  say  what  burden  it  was  that 
bore  the  girl  down  in  her  effort  to  rise  .from  that 
quagmire  of  wrong  and  woe  into  which  she  had  sunk? 
Possibly  the  riddle  of  her  strivings  and  her  failures 
had  been  propounded  long  before  her  birth,  under 
conditions  for  which  she  was  not  responsible.  Be 
ings  like  her  cross  our  path  at  times,  making  us 
reflect  that  the  same  life-bearing  current  which  in 
them  goes  so  darkly  on  its  way  and  ends  in  abysses 
so  abhorred,  is  connected  with  the  tide  of  thought 
and  feeling  in  the  most  punctilious  and  irreproach 
able  of  us,  by  numberless  unseen  ducts,  which  are 
no  less  real  for  being  unnoticed. 

Such  persons  are  creatures  of  mystery.  To  learn 
their  parentage  tells  us  little.  They  are  the  children 
of  night  and  antiquity,  reproducing  always  freshly 
what  is  older  than  the  earth. 


138  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XII. 

WHITCOT   BEGINS   ENGINEERING. 

TO  a  young  professional   man  without  employ 
ment  it  is  consoling  to  gather  about  him  a  few 
tokens  of  his  craft,  so  that  by  looking  at  them  he 
may  convince  himself  that  he  has  really  entered  on 
a  career. 

Accordingly  Whitcot,  on  the  rain}7  morning  after 
his  singular  experience  in  returning  from  Pride's, 
took  out  of  his  trunk  his  box  of  instruments,  some 
sheets  of  paper  and  a  drawing-board,  several  elabo- 
ratety  technical  pamphlets  printed  from  discourses 
read  by  successful  engineers  before  meetings  of  other 
less  successful  engineers,  and  a  formidable  row  of 
thick  volumes  bound  in  red  and  bearing  the  potent 
name  of  Ramse}'.  Then,  with  the  conscious  recti 
tude  of  a  mind  that  has  been  well  employed,  he  be 
took  himself  to  a  novel  by  the  elder  Dumas,  and 
measured  its  innumerable  paragraphs  by  means  of 
cigarettes  smoked  in  regular  succession  ;  balancing 
the  tobacco  and  the  fiction  with  great  nicety.  This 
interesting  experiment  in  the  relative  strength  of 
materials  he  continued  through  nearly  the  whole  of 
that  day,  with  short  intermissions  for  eating.  But 
when  he  found  the  inclement  weather  settling  itself 
comfortably  for  a  prolonged  sta}^,  he  was  obliged  to 


WHITCOT  BEGINS  ENGINEERING.     139 

throw  himself  on  the  native  resources  of  the  country. 
He  had  almost  given  this  up,  as  a  bad  job,  and  was 
considering  the  advisability  of  flying  to  the  sea 
shore,  when  something  transpired  which  gave  him 
new  reasons  for  staying. 

Finding  Savage's  Hotel  to  be  the  centre  of  public 
life  in  the  place,  he  dropped  in  there  every  day  to 
read  the  newspapers  ;  found  Major  Brown,  Waddy, 
and  Breck  congregated  there  at  certain  hours ;  and, 
having  ingratiated  himself  by  patronizing  the  bar, 
fell  into  conversation  with  those  worthies.  Bad 
weather  and  ennui  had  reduced  his  pride,  and  ren 
dered  him  more  companionable  than  on  the  day  of 
his  arrival.  His  docility  was  rewarded  by  the  Major 
with  unlimited  gossip  about  the  entire  population  of 
the  neighborhood.  By  and  by  it  appeared  that  a  like 
courtesy  was  expected  of  him  as  regarded  his  friends 
on  the  hill ;  whereupon  Whitcot  talked  of  them  at 
some  length  without  telling  anything  that  he  did  n't 
want  to. 

"That  Mr.  Burlen's  goin'  to  preach  here  for  the 
Second  Church,  ain't  he?"  Breck  asked  of  Serious. 

"Yep,"  said  the  landlord,  confirmatively. 

"  Do  you  think  he's  likery  to  get  the  position?" 
Richard  inquired.  He  hoped  Buiien  would,  for  it 
seemed  to  him  improbable  that  Edith  would  consent 
to  share  the  obscure  life  of  a  minister  at  Savage's. 

u  Likely  enough,"  Serious  replied.  "  The  s'ciety 
ain't  in  no  hurry  to  choose,  though." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Well,  we  've  got  along  for  a  year  without  a  set- 


140  72V   THE  DISTANCE. 

tied  minister,  and  like  it  pootty  well.  You  see  we  get 
'em  on  trial  for  notliin' ;  and  then  it 's  kind  o'  spicy, 
havin'  different  ones  all  the  time.  Real  spicy,  't 
is."  Serious's  eyes  twinkled  with  sharp  commercial 
satisfaction. 

Whitcot  learned,  further,  that  the  Second  Church 
was  Congregational,  because  the  Unitarians  in  the 
original  church  had  been  so  strong  as  to  capture  it 
and  drive  out  the  Orthodox  members  ;  also,  that  the 
last  settled  minister  of  the  "  Second"  had  retired 
because  of  some  financial  operations  which  —  as  the 
local  newspaper  had  said  at  the  time  —  "  impaired 
his  usefulness  in  the  pulpit."  He  had,  in  fact,  orga 
nized  a  bank,  and  induced  people  to  deposit  largely  in 
it ;  after  which  the  bank  failed  and  the  minister  was 
found  to  have  avoided  responsibility,  so  that  he  could 
not  be  prosecuted.  "But,  some  way  or  another," 
Wacldy  explained,  as  if  he  could  n't  imagine  in  what 
way,  "his  wife  turned  out  to  own  his  house,  and  had 
a  lot  of  other  proputty  settled  on  her." 

"Pretty  bad  work  for  a  minister  to  be  engaged 
in,"  observed  Whitcot,  with  an  air  of  reluctant  jus 
tice. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Major,  "  he  was  raythcr  too  smart 
to  be  a  preacher."  Then  all  the  men  laughed,  una 
ble  to  repress  their  sneaking  admiration  for  the  skill 
with  which  an  innocent-seeming  expounder  of  the 
gospel  had  taken  in  the  community. 

"  Fact  is,"  put  in  Breck,  screwing  his  earnest  eye 
anxiously  around,  to  fix  it  on  Major  Brown,  "these 
pulpit-pounders,  now-a-days,  have  got  heaven  down 


WHITCOT  BEGINS  ENGINEERING.    141 

so  fine,  they  pay  a  little  more  'tention  than  they  'd 
ought  to  to  some  other  things." 

Though  not  very  sensitive  on  this  subject,  Whitcot 
was  rather  startled  at  the  tone  of  the  discussion,  and 
congratulated  himself  that  he  was  not  in  B mien's 
8lloes,  —  a  candidate  for  a  sacred  office  among  people 
so  lightly  burdened  with  reverence  for  it. 

The  Major  had  apparently  been  turning  something 
over  in  his  mind.  "Burlen?"  he  reflected,  audi 
bly.  "  Where  've  I  heard  that  name  ?  Do  you  know 
where  he  come  from?"  he  asked  the  engineer. 

Richard  hati  no  hesitation  in  saying,  with  an  air 
of  superiority,  that  he  really  knew  nothing  about 
him. 

"  Didn't  his  father  live  down  at  Singapore?"  the 
sheriff  continued,  taking  off  his  hat  and  examining 
the  blue-silk  binding  as  if  it  were  a  form  of  note 
book.  The  place  he  referred  to  so  familiarly  was  not 
situated  in  India,  but  was  merely  a  small  settlement 
across  the  Massachusetts  line,  named  by  the  inhabi 
tants  with  a  secure  knowledge  that  the  real  Singapore 
would  never  hear  about  it,  and  could  therefore  be 
travestied  with  impunity.  "  I  drove  through  there 
once  when  I  was  a  young  man,"  Major  Brown  went 
on  reading  from  the  hat-brim,  "  and  had  a  horse 
shoed  at  his  forge." 

"  A  blacksmith  !  "  cried  Whitcot.  "  That  could  n't 
have  been  his  father."  Yet  he  found  himself  a  little 
excited. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  of  it,  now  I  come  to  think,"  the 
other  insisted.  "  Le'  see,  Ser'ous,  what  was  his 


142  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

wife's  name?  I  must  have  told  }'ou  once,  but  I  seem 
to  have  forgot  it." 

Serious  could  n't  remember. 

"  Well,  you  rec'lect  R.  V.  Swift,  don't  you?" 

The  landlord,  for  perhaps  the  thousandth  time, 
acknowledged  that  he  did. 

The  Major  dropped  into  a  musing  tone.  "  Cousin 
to  John  E.  Barker,  he  was.  Some  wa}"  that  woman's 
name  's  got  somethin'  to  do  with  Swift,  but  I  can't 
seem  to  place  it.  R.  V.  Swift  was  a  pootty  sharp 
blade.  What  notes  he  did  get  off,  sometimes  !  Wiry, 
Ser'ous,  he  said  to  me  one  day,  says  he  —  " 

u  But  what  makes  3*011  think  that  Burlcn  was  the 
young  preacher's  father?"  Whitcot  broke  in,  getting 
impatient. 

"I'm  coming  to  that  bimcby,  young  man,"  said 
the  Major,  with  awful  dignity. 

In  this  manner,  after  exploring  several  collateral 
lines  of  relationship  centring  upon  11.  V.  Swift,  and 
pursuing  a  number  of  reminiscences  which  always  at 
the  last  moment  escaped  him,  he  gradually  unfolded 
enough  of  what  he  knew  concerning  the  Burlens  to 
put  Whitcot  in  possession  of  a  good  part  of  his  rival's 
unhappy  story,  including  fragments  as  to  the  sister's 
disappearance. 

He  returned  to  his  room  in  a  state  of  suppressed 
excitement  and  triumph.  He  had  never  liked  Bur- 
len,  and  the  sense  that  he  was  latterly  becoming  a 
dangerous  rival  had  deepened  this  dislike  almost  to 
hatred.  Now,  however,  possessed  of  information 
which  might  be  made  very  damaging  to  the  young 


WHIT  COT  BEGINS  ENGINEERING.     143 

man,  be  began  to  feel  generous  and  almost  friendly 
towards  him.  At  least,  he  fancied  that  he  did. 
"Poor  fellow!"  he  sighed,  as  he  stood  meditating 
at  his  window,  overlooking  the  road  that  led  to 
Pride's.  "  It  must  be  very  hard  for  him  to  think  of 
that  sister  of  his  as  an  outcast,  straying  round  no 
one  knows  where.  What  if  she  should  come  to  light 
suddenly?  Whew!"  He  had  put  himself  for  a 
moment  in  Burlen's  position,  and  this  exclamation 
was  extorted  by  a  sense  of  the  terrible  embarrass 
ment  that  such  a  reappearance  of  the  girl  would 
bring.  He  continued  thinking,  on  his  own  account : 
u  It  would  be  curious  to  see  her.  Is  she  hand 
some,  I  wonder?  She  may  be,  though  Burlen"  — 
he  deliberated,  flattering  himself  that  he  would  be 
perfectly  just  towards  the  adversary  now  in  his 
power  —  "is  not;  no,  certainly  is  not  handsome. 
I  should  like  to  see  her,  though." 

As  the  thought  spent  itself,  his  eye  was  attracted 
b}'  a  moving  object  in  the  misty  rain,  a  little  way  tip 
the  road.  Slowty  overcoming  his  abstraction,  he 
narrowed  his  gaze  upon  this  object,  which  resolved 
itself  into  a  woman's  brown  cloak,  disclosing  at  the 
opening  in  front  a  bit  of  pink  skirt.  The  woman's 
head  was  concealed  by  a  faded  umbrella.  As  she 
drew  nearer,  Whitcot  noticed  that  the  pink  skirt  had 
been  torn,  for  a  bit  of  it  hung  down  brokenly  below 
the  cloak.  He  was  struck  by  her  elastic  tread,  how 
ever,  which  showed  her  to  be  young.  Presently  she 
shifted  the  position  of  the  umbrella,  and  her  face 
became  visible  as  a  fresh-colored  spot  in  the  gray 


144  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

blur  of  the  storm  ;  from  which  it  rapidly  advanced 
into  distinctness,  like  a  picture  just  in  process  of 
creation. 

It  was  the  face  of  Ida  Hiss,  who  at  that  moment 
was  returning  from  her  secret  meeting  with  Timothy 
Pride,  already  described. 

The  slight  vibration  in  Whitcot's  brain,  caused  by 
that  thought  concerning  Burlen's  sister,  had  not 
entirely  ceased,  when  he  became  aware  of  Ida's 
identity.  If  we  could  measure  the  action  of  an  idea 
on  the  mind,  and  then  discover  the  connection  be 
tween  this  movement  and  some  sensation  produced 
by  the  sound  of  a  voice,  a  perfume,  or  the  sight  of 
some  person  or  place,  we  should  see  how  delicate  is 
the  mechanism  of  what  we  call  Fate.  Perhaps  the 
duration  of  a  single  second  in  this  process  may  alter 
the  result  of  a  lifetime.  If  the  form  and  face  of  Ida 
Hiss  had  not  presented  themselves  to  Whitcot  at  this 
instant,  his  passing  reflection  about  Burlen's  sister 
might  have  buried  itself  where  it  first  came  into 
being,  without  ever  taking  any  definite  course.  As 
it  was,  a  connection  between  it  and  the  girl  Ida  was 
immediately  established. 

Here  was  a  mysterious  girl,  thrown  peculiarly  in 
his  way  by  what  seemed  to  him  now  a  chain  of  coin 
cidences  naturally  leading  to  some  important  conclu 
sion.  In  his  talks  with  the  hotel-loungers  he  had 
cautiously  tried  to  learn  something  about  her,  but 
found  that  her  origin  and  previous  whereabouts  were 
shrouded  in  obscurity.  Not  even  by  aid  of  the  all- 
powerful  R.  V.  Swift  was  the  Major  able  to  develop 


WH1TCOT  BEGINS  ENGINEERING.    145 

any  information  on  these  heads.  On  the  other  hand 
the  history  of  Burlen's  sister  was  to  some  extent 
known  in  its  beginning,  but  ended  in  uncertainty. 
What  could  be  more  natural  than  to  seek  in  the 
present  fact,  Ida,  the  completion  of  that  unfinished 
history  ? 

She  plashed  on  over  the  wet  road,  came  directly 
below  the  window,  halted,  and  then  mounted  Mrs. 
Tarbox's  steps,  under  the  dripping  catalpa-tree.  To 
Whitcot,  overwrought  by  the  discoveries  and  specu 
lations  just  then  occupying  him,  it  seemed  as  if  she 
must  be  coming  to  furnish  him  with  corroboration  of 
his  surmises ;  and  as  she  passed  out  of  his  view 
under  the  branches  of  the  catalpa,  he  even  fancied 
that  he  could  detect  in  her  browned  complexion  and 
the  subtile  sadness  diffused  through  her  features  a 
striking  resemblance  to  the  young  theologian.  The 
truth  was,  the  girl  had  stopped  merely  to  talk  with 
Mrs.  Tarbox ;  parti}7  as  a  safeguard  in  case  of  per 
tinacious  questions  from  Rudyard.  Whitcot  soon 
comprehended  that  he  was  letting  his  fancy  carry 
him  awa}T.  After  all,  what  substantial  ground  had 
he  for  assuming  it  to  be  even  remotely  possible  that 
this  was  Burlen's  sister? 

But  the  possibility  kept  coming  back  to  him,  in 
the  following  daj's.  Whoever  she  was,  her  singular 
position  with  regard  to  Timothy  Pride  and  Rudyard, 
of  which  he  had  accidentally  got  an  inkling,  made 
him  inquisitive,  and  he  sounded  Mrs.  Tarbox  con 
cerning  her.  All  he  could  find  out  was  that  Rudj^ard 
was  supposed  to  be  "  courting"  her,  and,  being  of  a 
10 


146  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

ferociously  jealous  disposition,  assumed  a  kind  of 
proprietorship  in  her,  watching  all  her  movements 
with  sullen  vigilance ;  while  she,  for  the  sake  of  de 
fiance,  Mrs.  Tarbox  thought,  kept  up  a  laborious 
flirtation  with  Timothy. 

Whitcot  wondered  what  he  had  better  do.  "  Per 
haps,"  he  reflected,  "  I  ought  to  go  and  tell  Burlen 
what  I  think,  and  let  him  judge  for  himself  who  she 
is."  That  would  involve  letting  his  rival  know  that 
he  had  got  hold  of  his  family  history ;  which  would, 
he  meditated  with  a  pretence  of  compassion,  be  a 
severe  blow  to  him.  No  ;  he  would  spare  the  unfor 
tunate  fellow  for  the  present.  He  would  "  hold  on" 
a  while.  Having  reached  this  decision,  he  applied 
himself  to  his  drawing-materials  and  soon  convinced 
himself  that  he  was  about  to  become  a  capital 
engineer. 


NOTHING  PARTICULAR.  147 


XIII. 

NOTHING    PARTICULAR  ;    HENCE,  IMPORTANT. 

THE  days  of  the  world  form  a  sort  of  cell-growth. 
Each  one  repeats  something  that  some  previous 
day  has  brought  to  pass,  and  contains  within  itself 
the  possibilit}-  of  almost  eveiy  conceivable  mundane 
event.  It  is  individual,  yet  exists  only  as  a  part  of 
the  great  homogeneous  structure  of  time.  One  day 
is  added  to  another,  until  the  whole  fabric  of  a  }'ear 
or  an  age  or  a  lifetime  is  completed,  flowers  and  foils 
awa}~,  —  and  the  cell-building  still  goes  on.  For  this 
reason  the  days  when  ' '  nothing  particular  "  occurs 
to  us  are  as  significant  as  others  in  moving  along  the 
great  process  of  growth. 

With  the  bright  weather,  Whitcot  came  cheerily 
up  to  make  a  call,  and  was  received  with  great 
warmth  by  Mrs.  Savland. 

"  I  stopped  at  the  post-office,"  he  said,  "  and 
found  this  letter  waiting  for  you,  Edith." 

She  opened  it,  and  disclosed  four  pages  of  fashion 
able  chirograph}".  "It's  from  Viola,"  she  made 
known.  "It  must  have  been  waiting  some  time. 
Let  me  see  —  why,  she  '11  be  here  to-day ! "  she 
exclaimed,  disentangling  the  fact  from  the  maze 
of  writing.  "How  delightful!" 


148  IK  THE  DISTANCE. 

Hereupon  there  was  a  good  deal  of  small  excite 
ment.  Mrs.  Pride  had  to  be  notified,  and  arrange 
ments  must  be  made  for  meeting  Viola  at  the  station. 
"  I  '11  attend  to  all  that,"  said  Richard,  in  his  largest- 
hearted  manner. 

"That's  very  good  of  you,  Richard.  But,  no; 
after  all,  she  'd  never  forgive  me  if  I  did  n't  go  down 
to  meet  her  myself." 

"We  might  possibly  go  together,"  he  suggested, 
archly. 

44  Yes  ;  Mr.  Pride  will  drive  us." 

"  You  must  come  back  to  dinner  with  us  :  I  insist 
upon  it,"  Mrs.  Savland  declared. 

All  this  time  Burlen  was  sitting  unconscious  among 
some  wild-cherry  trees  that  clustered  around  a  large 
granite  boulder,  forming  a  natural  bower,  a  conve 
nient  out-door  study,  some  distance  from  the  house, 
and  was  absorbed  in  reading.  When  he  emerged 
towards  noon,  he  encountered  Mr.  Pride  mowing. 

"  Hullo  !  Did  n't  go  down  with  the  folks  ?  "  asked 
the  farmer. 

"  Where?     I  did  n't  know  they  were  gone." 

Pride  gave  another  sweep  with  his  scythe,  and 
paused.  "Seems  the  young  lady's  gone  down  to 
meet  her  friend  that 's  comin'.  Wanted  me  to  drive 
her,  she  did  ;  but  then  /couldn't,  no  more'n  fly.  I 
got  too  much  to  do." 

"  Wiry  didn't  you.  tell  me?  I  hope  she  hasn't 
had  to  go  alone."  Burlen  was  irritated. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Pride,  wiping  his  brow.  "That 
ar  spruce  young  chap  't  was  with  }rou  folks  the  fust 


NOTHING  PARTICULAR.  149 

Whichcoat,  or  Turncoat,    or  whatever   he  's 

called,"  he  specified,  revenging  himself  for  the  engi 
neer's  former  facetiousness  towards  him:  "  he  was 
up  here,  and  he  's  drove." 

Burlen  was  more  irritated  than  before.  "  Whitcot* 
you  mean,"  he  corrected.  "I  wish  you  had  told 
me." 

"  Thought  you  was  a  busy  man  like  me,"  returned 
Pride.  "  Them  young  whipper-snappers  hev  got 
time  'nough  to  run  round  with  the  gals,  but  farmin' 
and  preachin'  takes  too  much  work  to  leave  a  man 
free." 

"  How  does  your  farming  go,  now-a-days?"  Bur 
len  asked,  to  change  the  subject. 

"Well,  it's  consid'able  like  the  roads  'reound 
aere  —  aii  up-hill.  Look  at  that  grass,  now." 
"It's  pretty  short;  that's  true." 
"Short?  I  guess  'tis.  Wiry,  I  kin  remember  of 
the  time  when  it  was  up  to  here."  Pride  had  on 
enormous  overalls  extending  as  high  as  his  chest, 
and  making  his  long  legs  look  like  stilts.  He  pointed 
as  he  spoke  to  the  straps  of  this  garment,  near  his 
arm-pit,  as  indicating  the  former  height  of  the  grass. 
"Yes,  sir,"  he  proceeded;  "that  was  when  my 
gran'father  was  alive.  Folks  didn't  hev  mowin' 
machines,  them  days  ;  they  raised  a  big  fam'ly  of 
boys  instid,  to  do  the  mowin'  for  'em.  Now  the 
crops  are  smaller,  and  the  fam'lies  are  smaller,  too. 
In  my  father's  day  the  grass  had  got  down  to  here" 
Mr.  Pride  aimed  a  blow  at  himself  in  the  region  of 
the  waist,  with  the  edge  of  his  hand.  "  Now,  you 


150  IN    THE  DISTANCE. 

see,  it  ain't  hardly  up  to  my  knee.  All  the  while  I 
was  growin*  up,  the  grass  was  growin'  down."  And 
his  lank  person,  encased  in  the  overalls,  did  in  fact 
seem  to  supply  a  convenient  measure  for  every  stage 
of  decline  in  local  prosperity. 

"  I  should  think  you  'd  get  discouraged,"  remarked 
his  listener,  sadly. 

"  Tell  you,"  reiterated  the  man,  warming  to  his 
subject  as  he  saw  it  was  appreciated,  "  farmin  's  a 
difficult  business.  Take  a  man's  lifetime  to  learn 
all  the  crooks  and  turnin's  of  it,  't  would.  And  then 
he  wouldn't  know  'em,  p'raps,  after  all,"  he  added, 
feeling  that  his  first  climax  was  not  strong  enough, 
and  that  he  might  as  well  make  the  case  hopeless 
while  he  was  about  it. 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  obstacles,"  said  Burlen,  thor 
oughly  interested.  "  I  saw  something  of  them  while 
I  was  a  boy." 

"  I  want  to  know!"  exclaimed  Pride,  taking  a 
new  view  of  him,  as  he  rested  one  arm  on  his  scythe. 
"You  mean  to  tell  me  you  was  brought  up  on  the 
hay?" 

"Well,  no;  I  was  n't  a  farmer's  son.  But  I've 
lived  in  the  country." 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  that,  now,"  the  other  declared. 
"Ain't  nothin'  like  it,  come  to  look  at  it;  be 
there  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  leaning  towards  it,"  Burlen  confessed. 
"  But  I  wish  you  'd  tell  me,  Mr.  Pride,  what's  going 
to  become  of  all  this  countiy,  now  that  it's  getting 
so  hard  for  farmers  to  live  ?  " 


NOTHING  PARTICULAR.  151 

"My  opinion  is,  it'll  all  jest  grow  np  to  timber 
again.  You  see  how  many  empty  houses  there  be 
a  'ready.  Factories  here  and  there,  V  a  few  villages  ; 
they  '#  stay.  But  the  rest  won't  be  no  better  'n  a 
wilderness.  Everybody  's  goin'  West,  or  else  down 
to  the  cities." 

"There's  something  wrong  about  it,"  said  the 
young  man,  meditatively.  "  It  ought  not  to  be  so." 

"No,"  Pride  agreed.  "It  hadn't  ought."  But 
his  conscience  smiting  him  for  his  idleness,  and  his 
back  being  rested,  he  now  bent  to  his  work  again, 
and  the  talk  ended. 

Burlen  watched  him  for  a  moment  dipping  with 
his  scythe,  fetching  the  steel  with  a  cool  "swish" 
through  the  grass  ;  bobbing  down  again  as  if  about 
to  disappear  entirely  in  the  engulfing  overalls,  and 
then  rising  once  more  to  prepare  for  another  sweep. 
After  this  the  }"oung  man  went  away  to  the  house, 
wondering  whether  something  could  not  be  done  to 
bring  back  the  spirit  of  progress  to  this  neighbor 
hood,  and  to  put  some  higher  quality  into  the  life  of 
the  people.  Ought  he  not  to  decide,  that,  instead 
of  acceding  to  Archdale's  ambitious  views  for  him, 
he  would  devote  his  whole  career  to  this  object,  if 
they  should  choose  him  for  their  pastor  ?  It  was  a 
momentary  mood,  yet  it  left  an  impression  on  him. 

Meanwhile  Whitcot  had  availed  himself  of  his 
solitary  drive  with  Edith  to  venture  upon  an  episode 
of  sentiment. 

"  I  'm  awfully  lonely,"  he  began,  "  down  there  at 
the  Tarbox  chateau.  The  old  man  and  woman  talk 


152  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

about  their  dead  son  all  the  time,  and  say  that  I 
remind  them  of  him.  I  should  think  I  might,  in  my 
present  condition.  I  'm  already  half  dead  with  isola 
tion,  and  Mrs.  Tarbox  evidently  means  to  finish  the 
business,  judging  from  the  amount  of  hot  biscuit  and 
pie  and  doughnuts  she  gives  me  to  eat." 

"  Poor  Richard  !  I  'm  really  sorry  for  you  !  Don't 
you  think  you  could  manage  to  find  a  place  up  nearer 
to  us?  There  are  several  houses  about,  where  I 
think  they  might  take  a  boarder/' 

Thus  encouraged,  Richard  became  gloomy.  He 
always,  with  his  mistaken  taste  for  tragedy,  be 
came  gloomy  as  soon  as  he  thought  Edith  would  be 
affected  by  it.  "I  don't  think  I  should  be  any  bet 
ter  off  at  one  of  them,"  he  said,  "  unless  I  could  really 
see  a  great  deal  more  of  you."  And,  to  emphasize 
his  sadness,  he  launched  a  blow  at  Pride's  horse  with 
the  whip. 

"  Please  don't  do  that  again  !  "  Edith  begged,  see 
ing  that  the  effect  on  the  horse  nearly  threw  them  off 
the  seat.  "But  I'm  sure  I  don't  understand  why 
we  should  n't  see  a  great  deal  of  you,  if  you  were 
nearer." 

"Oh,  you  would,  I  suppose,"  he  returned,  in  a 
melancholy  manner. 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  said,  imitating  his  tone;  "that 
would  be  very  sad,  wouldn't  it?" 

He  threw  off  his  gloom,  and  became  extremely 
business-like.  "  Look  here,  Edith  !  "  he  said,  "  are 
you  making  fun  of  me  ?  I  don't  think  it 's  fair." 

!'  I  did  n't  know  that  I  was  saying  anything  very 
funny,"  she  returned. 


NOTHING  PARTICULAR.  153 

"Well,  you  understand  what  I  mean.  I  see, 
though,  that  I'm  at  a  great  disadvantage." 

"How?" 

"  Well,  you  've  known  me  so  long,  you  don't  look 
at  me  as  }TOU  do  at  others.  Don't  }*ou  see  that  I 
have  feelings  and  am  a  man,  like  the  others?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  never  supposed  you  were  more 
than  a  man." 

Richard  gave  vent  to  an  impatient  sound.  "  You 
ma}r  laugh  at  me  as  much  as  you  please,"  he  de 
clared,  with  resignation.  "  I  suppose  I  must  sub 
mit  to  that.  I  would  submit  to  almost  anything 
from  you,  if  only —  ."  He  ceased,  and  there  was  an 
awkward  interval. 

"  Well,  I'm  listening  !  "  she  announced. 

"  You  must  have  noticed,  Edith,"  he  recom 
menced,  —  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  begin  !  You 
take  me  in  such  a  way :  I  'm  such  an  old  fact  to  you. 
But  it  does  n't  make  any  difference  to  me  that  we 
were  in  school  together,  except  that  it  makes  it  all 
the  more  wonderful  and  fascinating.  I  really  love 
you,  Edith." 

"Really?"  she  asked,  repeating  his  phrase  with 
almost  a  roguish  twinkle  in  her  eyes.  Then  this 
look  abruptly  sobered.  There  was  something  strange 
in  Whitcot's  avowal,  though  she  had  often  felt  that  it 
might  be  made ;  and  there  was  something  sweet  in 
it,  too.  He  was  not,  to  her,  a  romantic  person,  but 
she  could  not  regard  his  declaration  as  altogether 
prosaic.  This  light,  smiling  man,  to  place  himself 
all  at  once  in  so  serious  an  attitude  towards  her! 


154  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

And  then  she  knew  him  so  well ;  it  came  so  easily 
and  so  naturally  ;  it  did  not  terrify  her,  as  Ravling's 
love-making  had  done. 

He  noticed  the  change  that  came  over  her.  "  Is 
that  all  that  you  have  to  say  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  hesi 
tating,  half-hopeful  manner. 

It  touched  her  that  her  old  friend  should  thus  be 
hanging  upon  her  words,  his  happiness  in  the  bal 
ance.  "Oh,  Richard ! "  was  all  she  could  say  for 
an  instant.  Her  voice  had  sunk  to  a  lower  key. 
"It  seems  so  strange,  from  you.  Am  1  really  to 
take  what  3Tou  say  seriously?  " 

Whitcot  was  moved  to  petulance  ;  but  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  out  of  keeping  to  give  way  to  it.  "I 
don't  know  how  you  can  take  it  any  other  way,"  he 
said  gravely,  "nor  why  you  should.  I  certainly 
am  very  serious.  And,"  he  added,  giving  an  uncon 
scious  commentary  on  his  character,  ' 1 1  feel  as  if  I 
had  never  been  serious  before,  in  my  life  !  " 

Edith  laughed,  —  she  could  not  help  it,  —  and  yet 
she  had  no  thought  of  ridiculing  his  sentiment.  "  Is 
it  I  who  make  you  serious  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  answered.  "  All  I  know  is, 
that  everything  else  seems  trifling  beside  what  I  feel 
for  you  ;  and  since  I  came  home  to  America  and  saw 
you  again,  I  have  been  hoping  that  some  time  you 
would  consent  to  marry  me." 

She  appeared  to  be  lost  in  rever}'  for  a  moment. 
"  I  don't  think  I  ever  could,"  she  said,  simply,  at 
last. 

"  Why?  "  demanded  he,  with  strong  feeling.     "  I 


NOTHING  PARTICULAR.  155 

will  do  everything  in  my  power  to  make  you  happy. 
Only  let  me  try  !  I  may  be  worth  more  than  I  seem, 
—  than  I  seem  to  you  or  myself." 

There  was  such  humility  in  his  presentation  of  the 
case,  despite  his  customary  self-complaisance,  that 
Edith  experienced  a  new  feeling  in  regard  to  him. 
"You  mustn't  think  of  this,"  she  said,  with  some 
disturbance. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  returned.  "  How  can  you 
expect  me  not  to?  "  A  rush  of  jealousy  came  over 
him.  "  I  know  there  are  others  who  may  have  in 
terested  you ;  is  that  the  reason  you  discourage 
me?" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  gave  him  a  clear,  cold 
look.  "What  right  have  you  to  ask?"  was  her 
retort. 

"At  any  rate,  you  have  no  right  to  keep  me  in 
doubt,"  he  asserted.  "I  have  told  3-011  what  is  in 
my  heart.  You  must  not  trifle  with  it." 

"I  don't  trifle,"  said  Edith.  "I'm  not  a  co 
quette.  I  said  plainly  I  could  never  marry  3Tou." 

"  And  I  shall  hope,  all  the  same,  that  }T>u  will 
think  differently  by  and  bmy,"  he  replied,  inwardly 
congratulating  himself  on  his  spirited  course. 

"  At  least,"  she  said  frankl}',  and  with  apparently 
good  humor,  "  }rou  can't  hold  me  responsible  for 
what  you  think." 

Whitcot  made  an  effort.  "I  beg  }*our  pardon," 
he  said,  with  a  startling  relapse  into  humility ^  "if 
I've  offended  you.  Are  we  friends  still,  Edith?" 


156  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"I'm  sure  we're  nothing  else,"  she  answered,  smi 
ling  most  unconcernedly.  "  Why  should  we  be  ?  " 

And  so  this  peculiar  piece  of  courtship  ended. 
Nothing  more  was  said  with  regard  to  it,  on  the  drive 
down  or  back.  Yet,  before  she  went  to  sleep  that 
night,  Edith  found  herself  asking  why  it  was  that 
she  did  not  feel  offended  with  Whitcot,  and  whether 
this  every-day,  common-place  sort  of  proposal  was 
not  after  all  the  most  natural  and  the  most  reason 
able  kind.  Had  she  been  asked  what  had  been  said 
during  that  drive  to  Savage's,  she  would  doubtless 
have  answered  in  good  faith  :  "  Nothing  particular." 
Yet  that  conversation  had  at  least  served,  though 
she  might  not  know  it,  as  a  point  of  definition  in 
the  several  kinds  of  worship  that  encompassed  her. 


SUNDRY  ARRIVALS.  157 


XIV. 

SUNDRY   ARRIVALS. 

IT  turned  out  that  Archdale  had  come  up  by  the 
same  train  with  Miss  Viola,  though  not  aware 
that  she  was  on  board,  with  the  intention  of  giving 
his  sister  and  daughter  a  little  surprise. 

"  Why,  papa,  how  you  frighten  me  !  "  cried  Edith, 
on  discovering  him  at  the  station.  And  forthwith 
she  rushed  forward  to  embrace  the  object  of  her 
terror. 

He,  for  his  part,  greeted  Viola  with  equal  aston 
ishment,  though  with  less  effusion.  "This  is  even 
a  better  surprise  than  mine !  "  he  exclaimed  gayly, 
approaching  to  help  her  down  from  the  platform  of 
the  car  where  she  stood. 

She  barely  took  time  to  alight  with  practised  agil 
ity  before  replying  (for  she  prided  herself  on  the 
aptness  of  her  quotations) ,  — 

"  '  Prophets'  words  are  strange,  I  wis ; 

But  doubly  strange  are  real  occurrences/  — 

as  Goethe  says  in  the  '  Weissagungen,'  you  know.  In 
our  case,  the  strangeness  is  literally  double ;  is  n't 
it,  Doctor?  You  and  I  both!" 

On  their  arrival  at  the  house,  the  greetings  were 
renewed.  "And  is  this  your  father,  Miss  Edith?" 


158  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

asked  Mrs.  Pride,  who  had  spread  herself  expect 
antly  in  the  doorway  as  the  wagon  caine  up.  "  The 
Lord  be  thanked  !  " 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  ?  "  Archdale  exclaimed, 
in  some  alarm. 

"Ain't  it  right  to  be  thankful?"  retorted  the 
housewife,  with  pious  asperity. 

"Oh,  most  certainly,"  he  admitted. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  Mrs.  Pride  went 
on,  placated.  "And  I  hope  ye '11  make  yourself 
right  to  home,  and  be  suited.  Thank  Heaven!" 
After  which  she  fluttered  away  through  various  un 
necessary  doors  to  the  kitchen,  feeling  a  placid  satis 
faction  in  the  devout  tone  of  her  welcome. 

Mrs.  Savland  presented  her  face  to  be  kissed,  in 
the  manner  of  a  child ;  and  as  Archdale  touched  his 
lips  to  her  cheek  she  pressed  his  hand  significantly, 
whispering  :  "  This  is  very  good  of  you,  Tom."  She 
regarded  his  coming  as  an  act  of  obedience  to  her 
warnings.  "I  do  hope  you're  going  to  stay,  now 
you  're  here." 

"I  can  stay  only  a  few  days,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  we  would  arrange  to  have  Robert  preach  his 
sermon  while  I  'm  here,  so  that  I  can  listen  to  it  and 
give  him  my  —  my  support  —  and  criticism." 

Whitcot's  mischance  in  his  talk  with  Edith  did  not 
prevent  his  remaining  to  dinner  as  had  been  pro 
posed.  He  was  as  gay  and  restless  as  ever,  and  I 
think  she  secretly  admired  his  bearing.  Mrs.  Sav 
land  had  put  him  next  to  her,  placing  Burlen  on  the 
opposite  side,  with  Viola.  Whitcot  inferred  from 


SUNDRY  ARRIVALS.  159 

this  that  the  aunt  was  an  ally  of  his  ;  which  added  to 
the  secret  elation  he  felt  on  thinking  how  surprised 
ever}'  one  else  at  the  table  would  be,  if  they  knew 
what  had  passed  between  Edith  and  himself.  Es 
pecially  did  this  reflection  gratify  him  as  he  looked 
at  Burlen.  Burlen,  however,  was  equally  pleased  at 
being  put  where  he  could  survey  Edith  at  ease,  and 
wratch  her  every  movement  and  expression.  They 
wrere  all  in  the  best  of  spirits  ;  and  Mrs.  Pride  hov 
ered  silently  about  them,  occasionally  communicating 
with  Mrs.  Savland  as  to  the  needs  of  the  table,  but 
in  a  hushed  voice,  as  if  she  were  at  church.  Towards 
the  end  of  the  repast,  Viola,  who  was  never  really 
happy  unless  she  could  connect  her  own  impressions 
with  something  she  remembered  in  literature  or  art, 
—  a  habit  of  looking  at  one's  self  in  intellectual  mir 
rors,  always  gratifying  to  the  looker,  —  began  quoting 
Wordsworth,  in  connection  with  the  scenery  around 
them.  This  drew  out  from  Edith  a  glowing  eulogy  of 
Emerson's  "  Monadnoc,"  —  "  which,  it  seems  to  me," 
she  declared,  u  is  the  noblest  mountain-poem  ever 
written.  Do  you  remember,  Viola,  how  at  the  end 
he  appeals  to  the  mountain,  as  it  looms  up  on  the 
horizon,  to  keep  us  '  wise  and  sane '  ?  How  does  it 
go?  — 

"  '  Of  feasters  and  the  frivolous  — '  " 

"  Let 's  read  it  aloud,  this  afternoon  !  "  Viola  pro 
posed,  her  eyes  dancing. 

"  We  are  the  feasters,"  said  Whitcot.  "Where 
are  the  frivolous?" 

The  laugh  he  excited  brought  them  down  to  prose 


160  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

again  ;  and  Viola,  who  had  transported  her  water- 
colors  and  her  Ruskin  from  Willowbridge,  talked 
about  her  plans  for  sketching.  Whitcot  had  some 
thing  to  say  about  drawing  and  color  being  a  science 
which  would  some  time  be  practised  with  perfect 
certainty,  instead  of  by  the  uncertain  aid  of  inspira 
tion  and  instinct,  as  at  present.  But  here  Burlen 
entered  the  lists  actively  against  him,  and  the}'  all 
got  into  a  hot  discussion  regarding  the  scientific  and 
the  artistic  sides  of  Nature. 

"  All  this,"  observed  Archdale,  interposing  in  a 
sonorous  voice,  wherewith  he  had  often  quelled  dis 
pute  among  his  pupils,  —  "All  this  topic  of  the 
mystical  aspect  of  Nature  and  its  relations  to  science 
and  poetry  has  been  very  nicely  touched  in  a  ser 
mon  delivered  not  long  ago  by  — " 

At  this  instant  Mrs.  Pride  rushed  in,  and,  forget 
ting  the  solemnity  which  she  had  decided  upon  as 
proper  to  be  maintained  in  the  presence  of  a  clergy 
man,  announced  excitedly :  "  There 's  some  one  com 
ing  a-tenting  in  the  field  across  the  road  !  " 

"Tenting!  What?  Soldiers?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Savland,  nervously. 

"Oh,  no,  it's  a  civil-man;  just  for  fun,  sort  of," 
the  housewife  returned,  incoherently. 

There  was  a  general  stampede  to  the  windows, 
Mrs.  Savland  leading.  Only  Edith  was  stopped  for 
a  moment  by  Mrs.  Pride,  who  with  clasped  hands 
and  agonized  entreaty  inquired  if  the  raspberry  pie 
had  tasted  "all  right." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Edith  answered  her.  "It  was 
excellent." 


SUNDRY  ARRIVALS.  161 

"  The  Lord  be  praised  !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Pride,  with 
unction,  having  recovered  her  religious  balance. 

What  they  saw  from  the  windows  was  that  a  wag 
on  had  driven  up  through  the  bars,  into  the  opposite 
field,  from  which  two  men  had  dismounted.  They 
took  from  the  wagon  a  trunk,  which  they  carefully 
deposited.  Then  the}'  tossed  out  upon  the  grass  two 
or  three  large  canvas  bags,  a  number  of  short  bits 
of  wood,  and  a  spade.  After  this,  one  of  them  as 
sumed  author!  t3T  and  superintended  the  other  as  he 
marked  out  a  mysterious  plan  with  the  spade,  and 
drew  out  from  one  of  the  bags  a  quantity  of  wrinkled 
and  corded  canvas. 

44  It 's  Ravling  !  "  Whitcot  exclaimed. 

There  was  a  flutter  among  the  ladies.  Even  such 
commotion  is  there  —  pardon  the  homely  compari 
son! —  in  a  hen-coop,  on  the  approach  of  food. 

"What  in  the  world  is  he  about,  then?"  Mrs. 
Savland  asked,  disguising  her  satisfaction  under  a 
thin  veil  of  disapproval. 

It  was  seen  that  the  easiest  way  to  get  this  ques 
tion  answered  would  be  to  go  out  and  repeat  it  to 
Ravling  himself.  Accordingly,  Archdale  and  his 
sister  being  put  in  the  van,  the  rest  followed. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  law}*er,  answering  their  rapid  fire 
of  welcome  and  inquiiy,  "I  was  looking  over  the 
Law  of  Rivers  one  day,  and  it  struck  me  that  I 
should  like  to  see  a  real  river  up  here  in  the  moun 
tains.  I  've  been  editing  a  Digest  too,  you  know ; 
and  I  found,  if  I  went  on,  that  it  would  n't  leave  me 
much  chance  of  ever  digesting  anything  else.  That 
11 


162  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

was  my  doctor's  feeble  joke,  please  observe  :  it  was  n't 
mine.  At  any  rate,  he  ordered  me  off  for  a  rest. 
Well,  I  went  np  to  Willowbridge  3'esterda}r,  Miss 
Welsted,  with  this  hired  tent;  and  I  found  3^011  had 
deserted  the  place,  so  I  thought  it  could  n't  be  very 
advantageous.  I  concluded  to  leave  Mrs.  Withers  and 
flock  up  here  with  all  the  other  birds  of  my  feather." 

There  was  a  gleefulness  in  Ravling's  manner  that 
rather  startled  Edith.  He  seemed  to  have  grown 
younger,  since  that  unfortunate  colloqu}r  of  theirs  in 
the  pinewood  at  Marie.  Ma}r  it  not  have  been,  also, 
that  she  was  a  trifle  piqued  at  his  implying  that  it 
was  Viola's  presence  here  which  had  attracted  him? 

"I  came  over  from  Medoosic,"  he  said  to  Arch- 
dale,  "just  now." 

"  Ah,  that  was  the  reason  we  didn't  meet." 

"Have  you  had  dinner?"  asked  Mrs.  Savland, 
wreathed  in  smiles. 

"  Oh,  yes,  thanks  ;  at  the  hotel.  I  'm  going  to  be 
my  own  commissary-general  up  here,  though." 

"  That  will  never  do,"  she  declared.  "  You  must 
come  over  to  the  house  for  3*0111'  meals." 

And,  after  parley  with  the  Prides,  it  was  agreed 
that  this  should  be  done.  Furthermore,  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  Whitcot  made  an  arrangement  with 
Ravling  to  move  up  from  Tarbox's  and  share  his 
humble  canvas  roof,  together  with  the  expenses 
thereof.  In  this  way  it  came  about  that  the  little 
group  of  whom  we  first  caught  sight,  as  they  were 
looking  off  at  the  dim  blue  mountain  from  the  Cleft, 
were  again  gathered  together  almost  under  the  wing 
of  Monad noc. 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  163 


XV. 

IDYLLIC   DAYS. 

SINGULARLY  enough  (as  she  thought),  Mrs. 
Savland's  plan  of  getting  Burlen  and  Viola 
occupied  with  each  other  did  not  succeed.  Even 
the  accession  of  Ravling  did  not  result  as  she  had 
expected.  The  lawj'er  and  Whit  cot  both  devoted 
themselves  more  to  Viola  than  to  Edith,  during  the 
next  few  days  ;  leaving  Burlen,  as  before,  full  oppor 
tunity  to  converse  with  Archdale's  daughter. 

Now  that  all  these  young  persons  were  collected 
in  and  about  the  farm-house,  there  naturally  pre 
vailed  a  great  informality  and  freedom  in  their  asso 
ciation.  The}7  organized  parties  for  going  to  the 
fields  where  wild  strawberries  grew  and  picking  the 
last  of  the  fruit ;  they  made  impromptu  picnics  in 
the  woods.  The  three  young  men  would  go  off  to 
gether  to  bathe  in  a  secluded  pool  which  Burlen  had 
discovered  in  one  of  the  tributaries  of  the  Contoo- 
cook,  which  tumbled  over  a  ledge  of  rock  in  the 
depth  of  the  forest  and  then  rested  in  a  basin  large 
enough  for  swimming,  under  the  branches  of  a  big 
black  ash  that  clawed  the  bank  with  serpentine  roots 
and  put  its  arms  out  over  the  amber  stream,  —  a 
spot  destined  to  become  grimly  memorable  to  Burlen, 
afterward.  They  went  out  also  with  Timothy  and 


1G4  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

Mr.  Pride,  to  assist  more  or  less  languidly  in  the 
operation  of  gathering  ha}' ;  for  the  hilly  ground 
about  the  house  was  already  overspread  by  that  red 
dish-purple  hue  wherewith  the  grass  of  this  region 
blushingly  makes  known  its  maturity.  In  these  agri 
cultural  sallies  they  were  sure  to  meet  Ann  Fernlow, 
Timothy's  intended  bride  and  the  daughter  of  a 
neighboring  farmer.  She  always  came  to  the  relief 
of  the  workers  under  the  hot  sun,  with  a  pitcher  of 
u  swichel,"  —  a  harmless,  refreshing  beverage  com 
pounded  of  vinegar,  water,  molasses,  and  grated 
nutmeg.  It  was  a  pleasant  sight,  which  the  ladies 
sometimes  watched  from  under  the  apple-boughs,  to 
see  Pride  and  his  son  pitchforking  wreaths  of  hay 
up  from  the  ground  on  to  the  growing  mound  in  the 
4  k  hay-  rigging"  (otherwise  called  wagon);  the  loose, 
dried  tufts  changing  from  a  glinting  gray-green  as 
they  rose,  to  a  dark  hue  when  seen  against  the  bright 
sky,  as  if  they  were  fragments  of  tangible  smoke. 

Ann  Fernlow,  in  her  broad  straw  hat  bound  down 
by  a  single  ribbon,  looked  like  a  figure  out  of  one  of 
Whittier's  idylls,  and  was  so  timid  that  she  would 
hardly  speak  a  word.  Yet  the}7  all  conceived  the 
greatest  fondness  for  her,  regarded  her  as  an  indis 
pensable  personage,  and  watched  her  relations  with 
Timothy  with  the  minutest  interest. 

What  triumphal  entries,  too,  took  place,  when  a 
freshly  piled  load  of  hay  was  driven  into  the  barn  by 
the  approach  from  the  high  land  above  it,  which 
brought  the  team  in  on  the  second  story !  —  Ann 
seated  on  the  front  of  the  fragrant  harvest  like  an 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  165 

unconscious  rustic  goddess,  and  Viola  and  Edith 
with  the  three  young  men  picturesquely  disposed  on 
the  yielding  mass,  while  Timothy,  buried  somewhere 
down  in  front,  his  ruddy  face  fringed  with  dangling 
straws,  managed  the  horses  ! 

In  this  same  barn,  where  Pride  fortunately  kept 
no  animals,  the  friends  also  got  up  some  charades. 
They  even  dramatized  the  house-adder ;  Burlen  writ 
ing  a  ballad  entitled  "  The  Checkaddada  ;  or,  The  Ser 
pent  of  the  Cellar,"  which  Whitcot  gallantly  recited 
while  attacking  with  a  wooden  sword  a  stuffed  snake 
manufactured  by  the  ladies  out  of  spotted  cloth.  This 
formidable  reptile  was  agitated  by  means  of  a  line 
attached  to  a  fishing-pole,  which  Timothy  manipu 
lated  from  the  hay-loft  where  he  could  not  be  seen. 
The  performance  was  a  popular  success,  being  wit 
nessed  by  the  Prides  and  some  of  their  intimate 
friends,  democratically  seated  side  by  side  with 
Archdale  and  his  sister,  and  a  family  from  a  villa 
near  Savage's,  with  whom  Mrs.  Savland  discovered 
that  she  had  formerly  had  some  acquaintance.  The 
audience  was  further  strengthened  by  the  Rev. 
Franklin  Bland,  the  youthful  rector  of  a  small  Epis 
copal  church  in  the  mill-village,  and  by  the  wife  of 
the  Unitarian  minister,  Dr.  Snowe,  with  several  of 
her  children. 

Dr.  Snowe  was  a  mild,  white-haired  gentleman, 
submissive  and  politic  in  manner,  as  became  a  cler 
gyman  dependent  on  his  flock  and  weighed  down  by 
a  very  small  salary  and  a  very  large  family.  The 
Rev.  Franklin  Bland  was  a  lucid-eyed  bachelor, 


166  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

possessed  of  an  independent  income,  a  high  white 
forehead,  and  a  still  winter  necktie,  who  was  very 
dogmatic  and  very  prolific  in  ideas  of  ecclesiastical 
reform,  which  he  was  resolved  to  earn-  out  before  his 
hair  —  emulating  his  forehead  and  his  necktie  — 
should  become  as  blanched  as  Dr.  Snowe's.  But  as 
yet  he  had  only  some  two  dozen  communicants  in 
his  little  black- walnut-lined  church.  It  resembled  in 
size  and  appearance  a  lady's  work-box.  Both  these 
gentlemen  interested  Burlen  a  good  deal,  as  speci 
mens  of  his  professional  fellow-creatures.  Mr.  Bland 
frequently  drove  up  to  the  farm  in  a  shiny  little 
chaise,  and  brought  into  the  house  a  mysterious  black 
case  like  a  long,  flat  bottle,  —  uncorking  which,  so  to 
speak,  he  allowed  a  violin  to  escape  in  a  prolonged 
flow  of  melody  ;  for  he  was  a  very  good  performer. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  }'ou  happen  to  bury  }-our- 
self  in  this  out-of-the-wa}"  place?"  Mrs.  Savland 
bluntly  asked  him,  one  evening,  intending  thereby  a 
gracious  compliment. 

"  Well,  I  found  no  good  opportunity  for  interring 
myself  anywhere  else,"  he  returned,  in  his  airy,  un- 
clerical  manner.  "I  wanted  to  be  of  use,  and  so 
here  I  am  !  One  must  make  a  beginning  somewhere, 
you  know.  Besides,"  he  went  on,  "there  is  really 
more  here  than  you  'd  think  —  in  the  way  of  material, 
I  mean.  Raw  material  it  is,  I  confess ;  very  raw. 
Still,  now  and  then,  you  come  upon  a  person  who 
has  yearnings  for  art  and  culture  and  a  civilized  ex 
istence  ;  and  there  ought  to  be  some  one  here  to  help 
them  on  a  little."  Saying  which,  Mr.  Bland  became 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  167 

more  lucid  as  to  the  eyes  than  ever,  and  his  forehead 
seemed  to  grow  a  little  whiter,  with  the  repressed 
conviction  that  he  was  the  man  to  help  them,  if  any 
one  could. 

Burlen  was  attracted  by  his  honest  good-will ; 
though  he  afterwards  learned  from  the  gossip  of  the 
neighborhood  that  a  "fiddling  minister"  was  re 
garded  bv  most  of  the  population  as  a  doubtful  ac 
quisition.  "I'm  glad  you  stick  to  it!"  he  said 
warmly,  feeling  that  he  would  like  to  share  in  the 
work.  "This  region  seems  mournfully  dead;  but 
then  I  know  that  there  's  a  great  intelligence  in  the 
people.  I  find  they  read  the  magazines  and  papers, 
and  know  what's  going  on  in  the  world.  That 's  the 
secret  of  our  power, — that  the  country  districts  are 
always  producing  vigorous  men  who  rise  above  their 
circumstances,  go  out  and  become  powerful  in  affairs, 
and  bring  fresh  life  into  the  cities.  But  sometimes 
I  wish  more  of  them  would  rise  all  the  same  and  just 
stay  where  they  are  in  the  country,  to  make  the  life 
there  richer  and  nobler." 

Mr.  Bland  seemed  to  have  tired  of  the  subject 
alrcad}'.  "  Yes,  they  're  keen  and  quick,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  know  about  'the  people/  It's  a  senti 
mental  word.  But  there  are  exceptions  among  them 
worth  looking  after.  And  then,"  —  he  took  up  his 
violin  and  began  fingering  the  strings,  —  "when  it 
comes  to  a  crisis,  I  confess"  —  he  tucked  the  instru 
ment  under  his  chin  —  "their  hearts  are  generally 
on  the  right  side.  Generally  —  on  —  the  "  —  here 
he  applied  the  bow,  and  was  immediately  lost  in  some 
honeyed  strains  of  Mendelssohn. 


168  IX   THE  DISTANCE. 

"  We  ought  to  have  a  piano  up  here,"  Mrs.  Sav- 
land  declared,  when  the}-  were  all  excited  by  his 
playing.  "  Don't  you  think  we  could,  Tom?" 

"I've  been  in  terror,"  Edith  added,  laughing, 
"lest  Mr.  Pride  should  go  off  and  borrow  a  melo- 
deon,  as  he  threatened  to  the  other  day." 

"  That  must  be  prevented,  if  we  perish  in  the  at 
tempt,"  said  Archdale,  who  was  wont  to  assume  an 
awkward  playfulness  when  his  sister  called  him 
"Tom."  And  in  half  an  hour  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  it. 

"Do  you  play,  Miss  Archdale?"  Bland  asked, 
his  face  lighting. 

"  Hardly.     But  Miss  Welstecl  does." 

Four  da3's  later  a  heavj^  wagon  drove  up  to  the 
door-yard,  containing  what  might  have  been  taken 
for  the  frame  of  a  prepared  hippopotamus  kicking 
his  petrified  joints  into  the  air,  under  tarpaulin 
wraps.  This  object  turned  out  to  be  a  piano,  which 
Hay  ling  had  ordered  by  telegraph.  Viola,  at  the 
discovery,  gave  him  a  concentrated  look  of  thanks ; 
and  indeed  Edith  perceived  that  Ravling's  effort  of 
thoughtfulness  might  have  been  meant  quite  as  much 
to  gratify  Viola  as  to  cany'  out  her  expressed  wish. 

Very  pretty  Viola  looked,  that  evening,  seated  at 
the  keyboard  with  her  pale-brown  hair  softly  irradi 
ated  by  the  candle-light ;  very  riante  and  insouciante, 
as  she  herself  would  probably  have  said,  had  she 
seen  the  effect  she  made.  Her  delicate  white  dress 
had  about  it  some  bits  of  glistening  white  Spanish 
lace,  —  enough  to  give  it  an  air  of  reserved  elegance, 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  169 

yet  perhaps  also  enough  to  make  it  too  rich,  in  con 
trast  with  the  republican  simplicity  of  Washington 
and  his  troops,  as  they  executed  their  motionless 
manoeuvres  on  the  wall-paper  around  her.  The  Rev. 
Mr.  Bland,  however,  was  not  disturbed  by  that ;  and 
he  greatly  admired  the  taste  which  had  led  her  to 
arrange  a  few  pale-yellow  flowers,  from  Mrs.  Pride's 
garden,  on  one  side  of  her  dress,  near  her  neck. 
The  faint  color  in  her  face  gave  the  last  needed  touch 
to  what  was  really  a  charming  picture.  The  two 
tried  some  pieces  for  piano  and  violin.  In  fact, 
after  this,  their  music  gave  them  so  much  reason  for 
meeting  that  it  began  to  look  as  if  Mr.  Bland  found 
other  reasons,  as  well,  for  becoming  more  and  more 
attentive.  Possibly  this  assisted  Ravling  in  arriv 
ing  at  the  conclusion  that  Miss  Viola  was,  after  all, 
much  more  attractive  than  he  had  formerly  thought 
her. 

u  How  glorious  it  would  be  to  hear  a  full  orchestra, 
of  the  best  kind,  among  these  hills  !  "  she  suggested, 
with  a  sudden  fancy,  turning  half  round  in  the  piano- 
chair. 

Edith  clapped  her  hands  with  delight.  "  Oh,  yes  ! 
That  grand  symphony, '  The  Highlands,'  that  we  heard 
last  winter.  Niels  Gade's  :  do  you  remember?  " 

u  It  ought  to  be  something  of  that  school,"  Viola 
assented:  "  something  Wagneresque,  weird,  vague, 
you  know.  By  the  way,"  she  added,  directing  her 
words  to  Burlen,  "  there's  something  in  the  scenery 
up  here  that  makes  me  think  of  Ossian.  Don't  you 
think  so?  Don't  you  feel  the  solemnity  ? " 


170  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  I  feel  it,  but  I  don't  know  Ossian,"  he  confessed 
modestly. 

Viola,  rose  to  cross  the  room,  which  she  did  with 
a  light,  rhythmical,  cultivated  step  peculiar  to  her. 
Her  eyes  encountered  Kavling's,  with  a  sort  of  appeal 
as  if  to  sa}' :  "  You  're  read  Ossian  ?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  he  answered,  as  she 
took  a  place  near  him.  4t  One  little  thing  in  Ossian 
I've  always  remembered  ;  and  that  is  the  beautiful 
Agandccca,  whose  steps  were  4  like  the  music  of 
songs.'  " 

There  was  a  gentle  buzz  of  conversation  among 
the  others  at  this  instant,  so  that  the  remark  be 
came  Viola's  sole  property,  and  assumed  the  value 
of  a  very  pointed  compliment.  She  blushed  ;  and 
Ravling,  with  whom  this  turn  of  the  thing  had  been 
quite  unpremeditated,  found  himself  attacked  by 
some  confusion,  too. 

Other  diversions  made  the  time  pass  pleasantly. 
Sometimes  there  would  be  an  amateur  botanical 
foray  upon  the  woods,  under  Viola's  lead ;  at  other 
times  there  was  archery,  or  an  out-door  reading  in 
the  bobolink-haunted  orchard,  where  a  couple  of 
hammocks  had  been  swung  in  the  shade  at  a  spot 
from  which  the  whole  group  could  get  views  dowrn 
the  widening  valley  towards  Savage's,  with  its  coro 
net  of  mountain-peaks  at  the  north,  and  the  great 
bulk  of  Monadnoc's  watchet-blue  wall  on  the  left. 
Another  da}T  they  made  a  trip  to  Dublin  Lake,  —  that 
sparkling  sheet  lodged  upon  the  heights  just  behind 
the  arrow-head  of  the  mountain,  —  and  spent  an  hour 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  171 

or  two  there,  sifting  the  clean  sand  at  the  water's 
edge,  in  which  multitudes  of  little  garnets  are  found, 
that  were  ground  out  of  garnet-bearing  rock,  ages 
ago,  by  the  slow  trituration  of  natural  forces.  And 
there  was  sharp  rivalry  among  the  young  men  in 
collecting  these  minute  stones  for  Edith,  and  Viola, 
with  a  view  to  future  necklaces  and  ear-rings  which 
the  two  girls  planned  enthusiastically. 

Altogether,  the  days  at  this  time  were  as  idyllic 
and  pastoral  as  could  be  wished.  Everything  was 
going  on  very  much  as  they  had  dreamed  of  it  when 
looking  forward  to  their  happy  leisure  here  ;  and  no 
one  of  the  party  had  the  smallest  apprehension  of 
the  great  changes  that  were  soon  to  take  place. 

Returning  from  a  botanizing  expedition  one  after 
noon,  they  came  to  a  growth  of  pines  so  thick  that 
everything  was  gray  and  black  within,  except  for 
the  floor  of  deep,  warm  red  made  by  the  slow  deposit 
of  dead  needles  from  the  upper  boughs,  year  by  year  ; 
and  for  the  dazzling  streaks  of  gold  and  crimson 
that  fell  here  and  there  through  some  interstice  above. 
These,  and  the  general  diffusion  of  perpetual  twilight, 
revealed  a  maze  of  sharp,  broken  lines,  —  the  dead 
lower  branches,  —  scratched  against  the  deepening 
background  like  fine  lines  on  an  etcher's  plate.  The 
wanderers  were  seized  with  a  desire  to  make  their 
way  home  by  penetrating  this  enticing  barrier. 
" '  Through  the  pine-wood  blind  with  boughs/  " 
Miss  Viola  quoted,  as  usual. 

So   the  attempt  was  made,   and  of  course  they 
became  separated  in  carrying  it  out.      Burlen  was 


172  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

not  much  grieved  by  the  result,  since  he  and  Edith 
remained  together,  and  made  their  way  by  them 
selves.  At  length  they  emerged  into  a  glorious 
beechen  glade,  just  above  the  desert. 

Burlen  was  touched  by  a  slight  chill  of  premo 
nition.  He  could  not  avoid  a  fancy,  that  there 
might  be  some  ill  omen  in  his  arriving  with  Edith 
at  this  singular  waste,  after  their  struggle  in  com 
pany  through  the  opposing  wood.  But  as  he  did  n't 
believe  in  omens,  he  shook  this  fancy  off. 

4 'There  are  our  puzzling  gray  figures  again,  in 
the  sand,"  he  observed,  pointing  out  the  withered 
tree-bole  which  they  had  seen  on  the  day  of  their 
arrival.  And  from  this  point  also  the  resemblance 
was  striking. 

44  Have  you  decided  yet  whether  they  are  bidding 
each  other  farewell,  or  meeting  after  an  absence?" 
she  asked. 

44 1  've  never  thought  of  it  again,"  he  said.  "But 
it's  just  as  reasonable  to  think  the}7  're  meeting, 
and  a  good  deal  pleasanter.  So  we  '11  decide  upon 
that." 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  they  went  on  chatting  as 
they  proceeded  to  circumvent  the  sand  and  make 
their  way  down  into  the  glen  of  the  trout-brook. 
There,  tired  with  their  scramble,  they  sat  down  to 
rest,  in  an  angle  formed  by  two  rocks  and  within 
hearing  of  the  purling  streamlet. 

"  Do  you  notice,"  said  Edith,  "  we  can't  see  the 
water,  from  here?  But  how  wonderfully  cosey  it 
sounds,  tinkling  under  the  grass !  Oh,  I  have  an 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  173 

idea,  Mr.  Burlen  !  I  think  it 's  almost  a  poetical  one. 
That  murmuring  brook  seems  to  be  to  the  silence  of 
this  afternoon  just  what  the  cloud-shadows  are  to  the 
landscape  under  this  broad  sunlight.  What  do  you 
think?" 

Burlen  thought  her  fresh  }Toung  heart,  responding 
to  such  a  fancy,  was  ver}T  much  like  the  meadow- 
rivulet  itself,  running  on  in  pleasant  melody,  though 
unnoticed.  But  he  did  not  say  this.  "  I  agree  with 
you,"  he  answered.  "  You  make  me  think  of  a 
beautiful  little  poem  I  once  read,  called  '  The  Hidden 
Brook/  It  might  have  been  written  about  this  very 
one." 

"  Do  you  remember  it?" 

"Only  a  few  lines."  After  thinking  a  moment, 
he  was  able  to  recall  them  :  — 

"It  tones  the  shrilling  of  the  locust's  glee, 
And,  like  a  harper's  touches  falling  in 
With  high  notes  of  a  master's  violin, 
It  binds  a  jarring  note  to  harmony." 

"Excellent!"  said  Edith.  "It's  just  as  simple 
as  it  ought  to  be." 

He  seemed  to  be  pondering.  Then  he  asked : 
"  What  sort  of  a  life  do  you  suppose  a  man  must 
have  led,  to  write  that?  It  ought  to  have  been  as 
clear  and  untroubled  as  the  brook,  I  should  think. 
Shouldn't  you?" 

"  Oh,  that  depends  on  his  own  character,"  she  re 
turned,  with  ready  decision.  "It  doesn't  seem  to 
matter  what  a  man  has  suffered,  if  he  only  keeps  his 
innocence  and  sympathy." 


174  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

Her  answer  apparently  relieved  him.  "  Do  YOU 
think  so?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 

Thereupon  she  began  to  hesitate.  "  I  know  it 
would  n't  be  so  with  a  woman,"  she  said.  "  Women 
seem  to  have  no  resource  but  to  live  or  die  by  their 
experience.  They  can  be  brave  under  sorrow,  but 
they  can't  separate  themselves  from  what  they've 
been  through.  And  men  are  just  the  opposite  in 
everything,  are  n't  they?"  she  questioned,  with  a  sim 
ple,  half- wondering  confidence  in  his  vast  knowledge. 
';  At  any  rate,  you  must  know  more  about  that  than 
I  do." 

When  a  man  comes  to  rery  upon  a  woman  for  the 
decision  of  a  momentous  question,  her  wisdom  upon 
which  he  has  depended  often  resolves  itself  into  a 
counter-question,  or  a  sudden  leaning  upon  him  for 
the  final  word.  And,  curiously  enough,  this  is  the 
very  best  thing  she  can  do  for  him,  sometimes. 
Neither  of  them  are  infallible,  I  imagine ;  but  the 
fact  that  she  refers  back  to  him  gives  him  confidence. 
So  Burlen  felt  that  if  Edith  thought  him  able  to  de 
cide,  her  own  decision  must  be  sufficient. 

Still,  u  I  only  know,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  he 
said,  "  that  I  myself  feel  much  better  fitted  to  ex 
press  something  that  accords  with  the  rough  moun 
tain-streams  in  the  woods  around  here  than  with 
the  mildness  of  this  little  brook.  That 's  the  result 
of  my  experience." 

"  What  kind?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

He  was  startled  to  find  how  near  he  had  drawn  to 
the  point  of  disclosing  his  bitter  reminiscences  to 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  175 

her.  "Don't  ask  me,"  he  urged,  with  a  disturbed 
look.  "I  can  only  say  that  I've  been  through  a 
great  deal,  and  that  when  I  recall  it  I  feel  old  be 
fore  my  time,  and  fit  to  deal  only  with  grief  and 
struggle." 

It  is  a  trait  of  the  young  that  they  attach  so  much 
secret  weight  to  their  trials  and  misfortunes.  They 
hoard  them  up,  and  furrow  their  hearts  with  the 
thought  of  them  ;  and  by-and-by,  when  everything  is 
disclosed,  they  find  that  the  disclosure,  instead  of 
causing  a  cataclysm,  dissipates  the  whole  black  chi 
mera  into  thin  air. 

Yet  there  was  a  good  deal  of  ground  for  Burlen's 
sensitiveness.  We  find  upon  the  surface  of  some 
persons'  dispositions,  whom  we  know,  a  trait  which 
may  mean  one  thing  or  another,  according  to  its  re 
lation  with  other  traits  and  motives  below ;  and  un 
less  we  can  properly  gauge  the  whole  nature  to  the 
bottom,  we  form  an  unjust  judgment  of  such  persons. 
There  is  a  geology  of  character,  as  well  as  of  moun 
tains.  The  ignoring  of  this  fact  by  society  is  the 
source  of  infinite  wrong  and  anguish  to  people  who 
have  been  put  in  a  false  position  at  the  outset  of  their 
careers ;  for  the  world,  having  once  adopted  an  un 
favorable  theory  of  their  moral  structure,  is  slow  to 
abandon  it.  It  was  an  instinct  to  protect  himself 
from  this  wrong,  that  led  the  young  preacher  to  try 
so  carefully  to  separate  himself  from  his  past. 

Edith  was  silent  for  some  moments  after  he  spoke. 
She  was  not  embarrassed ;  nor  did  she  think  any 
thing  ill  of  this  friend  who  was  so  unlike  her  other 


176  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

friends.  She  was  simply  wondering  what  his  troubles 
had  been,  and  whether  she  should  ever  know. 

"I  can  hardly  understand  it,"  she  said,  rising  as 
if  ready  to  return  to  the  house.  "  I  have  never  had 
any  very  great  griefs.  My  mother  died  when  I  was 
so  young,  it  is  more  like  things  I  have  read  about 
than  something  that  actually  happened."  Yet  her 
face  grew  wistful  and  sad  while  she  was  saying  this. 
"  Some  time  or  other,"  she  resumed,  with  the  com 
posure  of  a  thorough!}'  happy  person,  and  }"ct  in  a 
serious  tone,  "  you  must  tell  me  something  about 
3*ourself.  I  might  learn  from  it." 

The  young  man's  heart  beat  rapidly.  "Ah,  if  I 
could  !  "  he  half  sighed. 

He  had  got  up,  too,  and  they  were  on  their  way 
along  the  brook-side.  An  impetuous  desire  came 
upon  him  to  unlock  his  feelings  to  her,  to  tell  her  all 
the  half- formed  emotions  and  plans  concerning  her 
which  pursued  him  so  constantly,  and  to  ask  her 
whether  she  cared  for  him,  and  would  take  him  as  he 
was,  so  that  their  lives  might  be  united.  But  the 
remembrance  of  his  conversation  with  her  father,  the 
night  before  leaving  Marie,  interposed.  Archdale 
had  asked  him  in  vague  terms  not  to  "take  advan 
tage."  How  remote  that  possibilit}'  had  seemed, 
then ;  and  how  near  he  stood  to  it,  now !  He 
checked  the  impulse. 

They  went  along  through  the  daisied  grass,  wind 
ing  among  the  boulders  and  clumps  of  dark,  sweet 
juniper,  past  the  deserted  house  where  the  wild  ro 
ses  had  now  nearly  ceased  blooming;  and  climbed 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  177 

a  stone-wall  by  a  short  bridge  draped  in  forsaken- 
looking  vines  of  wild  grape,  the  green  fruit  of  which 
was  ripening  into  dashes  of  ruddy  purple  where  the 
sun  looked  through  the  leaves.  They  said  nothing  ; 
but  both  were  busy  with  thoughts,  and  the  bright 
world  around  them  seemed  to  be  saying  a  great  deal. 
When  they  came  to  the  brook's  source,  where  the 
spring  bubbled  up  amid  long,  matted  grass  so  that 
it  was  hard  to  tell  where  water  began  and  grass 
ended,  the}T  were  near  the  barn,  and  therefore 
strolled  through  it  on  their  way  to  the  house. 

The  cavernous  old  building  was  half  full  of  new 
hay,  the  sweetness  of  which  in  that  cool,  dark  interior 
seemed  to  be  the  perfume  of  stored-up  sunlight  ex 
haling  from  the  thin,  dried  stalks. 

"  Barns  like  this  always  fascinate  me,"  said  Edith. 
"  Especially  when  there  are  no  cows  in  them.  It 
sounds  splendid  to  call  them  '  kine,'  as  writers  do ; 
but  that  does  n't  make  them  any  pleasanter  to  have 
in  a  barn.  What  I  like  is  this  delicious,  faint  smell 
of  the  hay,  and  the  bigness  and  quietness.  Hens  I 
don't  object  to,"  she  added,  as  one  or  two  made  their 
appearance  in  the  loft.  "•  Any  way,  it  all  makes 
me  think  of  when  I  was  a  little  girl  and  played  in 
barns.  It  brings  back  such  pleasant  memories ! 
You  have  lived  in  the  country,  too.  Does  n't  it 
bring  them  back  to  you  ?  " 

She  asked  without  reflection  ;  but  she  saw  at  once 
the  shadow  that  came  over  his  face. 

"No,  it  certainly  brings  back  no  pleasant  ones," 
he  said,  with  an  effort. 

12 


178  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry  I  reminded  }'ou,"  she  said  ner 
vously.  "  But  now  realty,  Mr.  Burlen,  I  can't  have 
3rou  so  gloomy  about  it.  I  want  you  to  admire  the 
barn." 

"I'll  try  to,"  he  laughed.  "  Ah,  see  there,  Miss 
Archdale  !  That  little  bird  flying,  up  there."  He 
pointed  towards  the  roof,  where  a  small  feathered 
creature,  having  accidentally  darted  in  through  a 
seam  between  the  old  boards  of  the  side,  —  some 
little  Strayed  Reveller  from  feasts  of  orchard  and 
wild  wood,  —  was  fluttering  to  and  fro  blindly,  trying 
to  escape  again.  In  a  moment  or  two  he  came 
providentially  upon  the  open  loft-door,  and  was 
gone.  "Did  you  notice,"  Burlen  asked,  "how  he 
kept  flying  up  against  the  roof,  at  first?  He  seemed 
to  think  if  he  could  only  get  towards  the  sky,  it 
would  be  all  right." 

"Yes;  poor  little  creature,  he  hit  his  wings  so, 
every  time  he  went  up  !  " 

"It's  a  good  deal  like  some  of  us  others,  when 
we  try  to  rise,"  he  mused. 

"Oh,  clear!  I  hope  not,"  said  Edith,  "/want 
to  rise.  And  can't  I  do  it  so  as  not  to  hurt  my 
wings?  I  don't  know  surely  that  I've  got  airy 
wings,  though,"  she  ended,  facing  him  with  a  smile. 

"  Nor  I,  either,"  said  Burlen.  "  I  mean  simply 
that  people  who  aspire  are  always  getting  hurt.  Do 
you  find  that  laughable?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  she  answered.  "I  thought  you 
were  giving  me  a  warning.  You  know  that  I  want  to 
learn  and  to  advance  ;  and  you  know  I  feel  how  pur- 


IDYLLIC  DAYS.  179 

poseless  I  have  been.  But  I  don't  wonder  at  your 
thinking  me  foolish  to  attempt  getting  an}*  higher." 

44  You?"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
what  I  do  think." 

"Don't,"  she  begged  him,  sincerely.  u  If  }'ou 
do,  you  '11  very  likely  crush  me ;  and  I  don't  want  to 
be  crushed." 

They  had  reached  the  door  opening  on  the  harp- 
shaped  elm  and  the  house  ;  but  he  paused  a  moment, 
resting  one  hand  on  the  post  at  the  side.  Putting 
down  the  intense  feeling  that  came  over  him,  he  said 
quietly:  "I  can't  imagine  what  put  all  this  into 
your  mind.  But  it's  a  mistake.  Anyway,  I  must 
sa}*  to  3'ou  that  I  —  I  had  no  idea  of  that  kind.  I 
was  thinking  of  nry  own  aspirations.  For  yours  I  feel 
nothing  but  —  reverence." 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  almost  breathless  ;  think 
ing  that  perhaps  he  had  said  too  much.  She  re 
turned  his  gaze  with  one  of  astonishment. 

4 'Well,"  she  said,  finally,  "how  could  you  ex 
pect  me  to  know  that?"  And,  after  a  pause:  "I 
think  we  must  have  misunderstood  each  other !  " 

And  so  they  had.  Misunderstanding  is  some 
times  a  useful  thing.  But  useful  as  it  is,  and  fre 
quent  as  it  also  is,  people  are  always  amazed  at  it. 


180  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XVI. 

THE    TRIAL-SERMON,    AND    WHAT    FOLLOWED. 

A  RCHDALE  had  seen  nothing  to  alarm  him, 
-^"^  since  coming  to  Pride's.  lie  saw  Burlcn  de 
voting  a  good  many  hours  to  reading  and  other 
work,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  four  young  men  and 
women  enjoying  themselves  harmlessly.  He  even 
undertook  to  humiliate  his  sister  Grace,  by  show 
ing  her  how  groundless  had  been  her  fears ;  though 
in  this,  it  must  be  admitted,  he  did  not  meet  with 
success. 

Meanwhile,  he  had  opportunities  to  talk  with  his 
favorite  disciple  about  his  prospects.  He  was  now 
conducting  some  diplomatic  negotiations  intended  to 
result  in  Burlen's  being  appointed  assistant  to  a  pop 
ular  and  overworked  pastor  in  Boston ;  though  this 
could  follow  only  after  some  preliminary  service  else 
where. 

"  So,  if  you  are  called  to  the  church  here,"  he  said, 
inclining  his  spectacles  with  just  the  slightest  trace 
of  disdainful  patronage  towards  that  part  of  the 
valley  where  the  Second  Church  lay,  "it  will  do 
very  well  for  your  novitiate.  The  salary  at  Boston, 
even  for  the  assistant-pastor,  would  be  a  good  one," 
he  added  comfortingly. 


THE    TRIAL-SERMON.  181 

The  candidate  betrayed  some  dissatisfaction.  "  I 
wish,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  we  didn't  have  to  con 
sider  these  money  matters  so  much." 

Archdale  sighed  concurringly ;  but  it  was  the  sigh 
of  a  man  who  had  been  so  long  resigned  to  the  sad 
necessit}^  in  question,  as  to  have  acquired  rather  a 
relish  for  it.  "  Nevertheless,  since  we  have  to,"  he 
said,  "it  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  accept  a  position 
where  there  need  be  no  anxiety  on  that  head." 

"That  is  n't  quite  what  I  mean.  The  amount  is 
just  what  I  'd  rather  not  think  about.  Here 's  Mr. 
Bland,  who  has  been  talking  lately  about  a  '  burning 
question  '  in  his  Church,  —  this  very  question  of  the 
minister  being  made  a  hired  piece  of  furniture,  or 
worse  ;  a  slave  to  his  vestry  or  his  congregation,  on 
whom  he  depends  for  bread.  The  question  does  n't 
burn  Bland  very  badly,  because  he  pays  his  own  sal- 
aiy,  and  falls  back  on  his  violin  besides.  But  even 
he  is  stirred  indignantly  at  the  thought  that  minis 
ters  of  the  Gospel  may  have  their  tongues  tied  with 
a  purse-string." 

His  old  preceptor  looked  annoyed.  "  My  clear 
Robert,  you  should  have  thought  of  all  this  before 
deciding  upon  }-our  profession." 

Burlen  remembered  what  Edith  had  said  to  him  : 
"It  is  not  3'our  profession,  it  is  simply  yourself'1 
He  answered,  calmly:  "I  have  thought  of  it,  and 
now  I  'm  thinking  of  it  again.  Probably  I  shall  be 
forced  to  do  so  very  often  in  my  career." 

"  Yes ;  it  is,  perhaps,  a  useful  instrument  to  hu 
mility,"  Archdale  returned,  dropping  into  resignation 
once  more. 


182  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  should  be  no  nearer  independence 
in  the  cit}r,  with  a  larger  salary,  than  with  a  small 
one  np  here,  where  living  is  cheap,"  the  other  ar 
gued.  "  I  have  been  forming  the  idea  that  I  should 
like  to  devote  mj'self  wholly  to  this  locality.  It 
needs  devotion  enough." 

"Well,  that's  the  right  spirit,"  Archdale  re 
sponded,  as  if  he  were  deciding  upon  a  reading  in 
some  ancient  author.  "We  can  determine  that 
matter  by-and-by,  though.  I  'm  glad  to  see  you  so 
earnest ;  but  don't  let  yourself  be  carried  away." 

Burlen  went  from  the  colloquy  a  little  saddened. 
He  began  to  see  that  there  were  serious  differences 
between  his  old  friend  and  himself.  To  be  "  carried 
away  "  was  just  what  he  thought  essential ;  and  if 
more  persons  could  be  so  borne  on  to  enthusiastic 
devotion  to  great  aims  with  small  rewards,  he  thought 
it  would  be  better  for  the  world.  But  he  soon  threw 
himself  again  into  the  current  of  the  sermon  he  was 
working  upon. 

The  appointed  Sunday  came.  The  church-bells 
jangled  harshly  up  from  the  valley,  very  distinct  in 
the  silent  air.  When  they  began,  the  thrushes  that 
had  been  carolling  in  the  woods  ceased,  as  if  rudely 
admonished  of  impiety.  Only  the  more  insensible 
sound  of  the  cow-bells  from  cattle  grazing  at  pasture 
responded  to  the  signals  from  the  steeples.  The 
peace  that  reigned  in  the  hill-fields,  however,  was  so 
suggestive  of  worship  that  it  seemed  almost  a  mis 
take  to  descend  to  the  confined  space  of  the  village 
churches  for  that  ceremony.  But  by  the  time  the 


THE   TRIAL-SERMON.  183 

bells  had  stopped  ringing  and  the  thrushes  had  re 
sumed  their  lonely  song,  the  party  from  Pride's  had 
taken  their  places  in  the  stiff-backed  pews,  garnished 
with  palm-leaf  fans  and  black-bound  hymn-books. 

Archdale  and  Buiien  both  sat  behind  the  ugly 
pulpit,  which  rose  in  a  mass  of  veneered  curves 
and  scrolls  at  one  end  of  the  church.  The  old  sex 
ton  pulled  at  the  bell-rope  dangling  through  the 
ceiling  of  the  porch,  with  a  long,  steady  motion,  as 
if  he  were  making  all  sail  for  heaven,  and  the  meet 
ing-house  were  a  craft  on  which  the  last  stragglers, 
coming  up  the  road,  had  better  hasten  to  embark 
before  it  got  under  wa\T.  Then  the  last  mournful 
strokes  came  to  an  end,  the  sexton  crept  noiselessly 
to  his  usual  post  near  the  door ;  there  was  a  brief 
hush,  and  the  latest-comers,  on  entering,  went  to 
their  places  with  a  guilty  air.  After  which,  the 
service  began. 

When  the  moment  for  the  sermon  arrived,  Burlen 
began,  very  quietl}r  and  with  some  embarrassment, 
by  reading  a  text  from  Isaiah,  telling  how,  in  the 
last  clays,  "the  mountain  of  the  Lord's  house  shall 
be  established  in  the  top  of  the  mountains ;  "  and 
another  which  says  that  men  shall  then  cast  away 
their  idols  of  silver  and  gold,  "to  go  into  the  clefts 
of  the  rocks  and  into  the  tops  of  the  ragged  rocks, 
for  fear  of  the  Lord  and  for  the  glory  of  his  majesty, 
when  he  ariseth  to  shake  terribly  the  earth." 

He  startled  the  country-folk  a  little  by  following 
this  with  a  question  so  simple,  and  put  in  so  ordinary 
a  tone,  that  it  seemed  to  them  almost  as  if  he  were 


184  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

jesting:  "Did  you  ever,"  he  said,  "ask  3Tourselves 
what  a  mountain  is, — what  it  means?"  Some  of 
the  young  girls  in  the  gallery  were  inclined  to  titter ; 
but  that  was  alwa}'S  a  regular  part  of  the  service, 
with  them :  the  excitement  of  going  to  church  con 
sisted  largely  in  the  effort  required  to  restrain  their 
own  risibility.  Serious  Savage,  however,  braced 
himself  comfortably  in  his  pew.  His  ideal  of  a 
wholesome  mental  diet  was  uninterrupted  condiment, 
and  the  present  discourse  promised  to  be  something 
"spicy,"  —  something  that  might,  in  short,  be  con 
sidered  pure  intellectual  nutmeg. 

"  I  have  been  asking  myself  that  question,"  Bur- 
len  went  on,  "  ever  since  I  have  been  among  these 
grand  hills  around  us ;  and  my  hope  to-day  is,  that 
I  ma}T  be  able  to  tell  3^011  something  of  the  answer." 
Then,  with  a  mixture  of  homely  illustration  and  vivid 
eloquence,  he  sketched  the  similitude  between  hu 
man  life  and  a  varied  landscape.  "We  are  all  fa 
miliar  with  the  idea  of  '  ups  and  downs '  in  temporal 
affairs,  and  we  all  feel  the  forcible  symbolism  of  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  and  the  Hill  Diffi 
culty  in  spiritual  experiences.  A  mountain  inspires 
us.  People  like  to  climb  it,  because  it  involves  vig 
orous  effort,  and  there  is  a  sense  of  triumph  when  it 
is  done.  The  peak  that  rises  so  high  above  our  or 
dinary  levels  excites  ambition.  And  when  we  make 
an  attempt  to  rise  in  life,  to  go  higher  in  spiritual 
ity,  or  accomplish  an}'  great  action,  success  in  that 
attempt  gives  us  the  same  sense  of  elevation  and 
victory  that  we  feel  when  we  have  scaled  the  peak. 


THE   TRIAL-SERMON.  185 

Mountains  give  us  another  kind  of  sympathrv,  too ; 
for  they  seem  to  have  suffered  and  endured,  as  hu 
man  creatures  do.  They  have  been  through  all  sorts 
of  struggles  and  shocks ;  they  have  been  fused  in 
fire,  and  chilled  by  choking  ice-fields.  Sometimes 
they  have  been  partially  overthrown  by  these  con 
vulsions  of  the  earth,  and  sometimes  lifted  up  still 
higher ;  and  they  all  bear  the  grim  marks  of  their 
history,  just  as  we  get  scarred  with  grief  and  loss 
and  loneliness,  in  going  through  life." 

So,  after  dwelling  a  little  on  the  physical  history 
of  mountains,  he  began  to  show  the  important  part 
they  had  played  in  the  spiritual  history  of  men. 
From  the  Old  Testament  record  of  events  connected 
with  them,  he  led  effectively  to  a  climax  concerning 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount ;  and  upon  that  foundation 
he  laid  so  much  of  symbolic  legend,  of  noble  poetry 
and  powerful  description  of  Nature,  that  his  own 
discourse  seemed  gradually  to  build  itself  up  before 
the  vision  of  his  hearers  like  a  verdure-clad  height. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  one  part,  "  these  natural  mon 
uments  are  among  the  teachers  that  Providence  has 
surrounded  us  with.  We  may  learn  from  them,  just 
as  I  may  learn  from  you,  or  }'ou  from  me !  The 
world  is  so  full  of  helpful  forces.  Even  the  dumb 
earth  speaks  to  us."  And  then  he  talked  to  them  of 
Monadnoc  (almost  within  range  of  sight  from  the 
church-windows)  in  such  a  way  that,  to  man}r,  a  sud 
den  glory  and  awe-inspiring  influence  appeared  to 
stream  down  from  the  rugged  eminence  they  knew  so 
well,  and  had  so  long  looked  upon  with  comparative 


186  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

indifference.  "  But  there  is  one  chief  lesson  which 
these  time-worn  shapes  convey  to  us,  that  I  want  es 
pecially  to  bring  before  you,"  he  continued.  "  AVhen 
you  go  up  to  the  top  of  Monadnoc,  3*011  find  that  you 
can't  take  much  with  3*011.  You  have  to  leave  your 
idols  of  silver  and  gold  behind ;  and  I  might  go  on 
and  say  that  you  leave  man}*  other  things  behind,  — 
your  hardware  and  your  bales  of  wool,  your  farms 
and  3'our  swift  locomotive.  Most  of  your  friends, 
too,  you  leave.  After  reaching  the  summit,  where 
you  can  overlook  all  that  3*011  have  left,  3*011  are 
almost  as  much  alone  and  as  much  separated  from 
those  who  are  dear  to  you  as  if  you  were  dead. 
This  is  only  a  type  of  what  happens  to  every  man 
or  woman  who  is  unflinchingly  brave,  who  is  devoted 
to  great  moral  ideas,  —  let  us  sa3T,  for  instance,  some 
reform  in  advance  of  the  age  ;  or  even  the  daily  pur 
suit  of  perfect  truthfulness.  To  such  persons  sep 
aration  comes  ;  thej7  are  often  severed  by  difference 
of  opinion  from  those  whose  love  they  most  desire. 
The3r  stand  alone.  And  then  the3'  find  themselves 
upon  a  mount  of  sacrifice ;  they  learn  to  kindle  their 
altar-fires  on  these  lonely  summits,  and  feel  as  they 
ma3*  never  have  felt  before  what  it  was  that  Christ 
endured  in  that  night  of  prayer  on  the  Mount  of 
Olives  !  " 

He  tried  to  show  that  in  even*  life  there  rise  such 
mounts  of  sacrifice,  more  or  less  difficult  to  ascend, 
which  man}'  people  try  to  avoid,  —  creeping  on  in 
convenient  lower  places,  bus3*  with  sordid  interests, 
—  though  they  ought  really  to  be  approached  bravely 


THE   TRIAL-SERMON.  187 

and  gloried  in.  How  to  prepare  for  this  upward 
struggle  was  the  next  point  in  his  theme  ;  and  finally 
he  called  upon  the  people  to  think  where  they  would 
wish  to  stand  at  that  final  moment  —  whether  it  be 
of  the  whole  mundane  life  or  of  our  individual  exis 
tences  —  when  the  Lord  ' '  ariseth  to  shake  terribly 
the  earth." 

In  all  this,  of  which  I  have  given  but  a  fragment 
ary  outline,  Edith  recognized  some  of  the  things 
which  she  had  heard  him  say  before,  but  now  so 
strengthened  and  illuminated,  and  fitting  in  as  parts 
of  such  an  impressive  whole,  that  they  seemed  still 
more  striking  than  at  first.  She  saw  that  he  had 
chosen  for  his  trial-sermon  the  very  one  she  had  so 
earnestly  urged  him  to  write ;  and  a  flush  of  pride 
and  joy  came  over  her.  But  before  he  had  finished? 
his  ability  and  eloquence  seemed  to  carry  him  so  far 
awa}'  from  her,  that  she  almost  wondered  at  her  own 
temerity  in  having  ever  talked  with  him  about  it. 

The  sermon  met  with  cordial  appreciation  from  a 
number  of  the  congregation,  who  afterward  lingered 
in  the  aisles  for  a  chance  to  shake  hands  with  the 
young  preacher  ;  having  obtained  which  privilege  most 
of  them  became  suddenly  embarrassed,  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  placed  in  an  awkward  predicament 
contraiy  to  their  own  wishes,  and  then  stammered 
out  a  few  rusty  words  of  thanks  or  congratulation. 
One  of  the  deacons,  however,  was  heard  to  say,  when 
moving  awa}'  from  the  church,  that  there  had  been  a 
great  deficiency  of  doctrine  in  the  discourse. 

u  There   was   good   points   in    it,"   James   Wad- 


188  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

kin  contended;    "  but  he  shoots  raythersome  high. 
These  young  fellers  mostly  doos." 

Serious  was  satisfied  :  he  had  been  surprised,  and 
shaken  out  of  his  usual  lethargy.  And  Ravling, 
waiting  in  the  porch,  overheard  a  short  dialogue  be 
tween  Mrs.  Serious  and  Ann  Fernlow,  which  was 
also  favorable. 

"I  call  that  a  rema'kable  sermon,"  declared  Mrs. 
Serious;  "and  comin'  from  one  so  young !  he  don't 
look  more  'n  a  boy  sca'cely.  He 's  downright  good- 
looking,  too,  Ann  ;  not  to  say  handsome.  Beautiful 
set  o'  teeth  he 's  got." 

"He'd  make  a  splendid  minister,"  Ann  Fernlow 
replied,  blushing  at  her  own  boldness  in  uttering  the 
opinion.  "  Then  he 's  so  plain  and  friendly  out  of  the 
pulpit,  the  way  we  see  him  up  to  the  farm.  Did  n't 
you  think  what  he  said  about  the  prophets  was  real 
good,  Mrs.  Savage?" 

"  Sh'd  say  I  did  !  "  the  matron  exclaimed,  rolling 
up  her  eyes  and  looking  as  if  attacked  with  a  faint 
ing-fit,  by  way  of  marking  her  approval.  Then,  ab 
ruptly  coming  to  again:  "Yes,  he'd  ought  to  fill  a 
pulpit  first-rate.  Beautiful  set  o'  teeth  !  " 

Mrs.  Savage  afterward  said  to  her  husband,  at 
home:  "  Scr'ous,  that  young  man 'd  ought  to  be 
engaged." 

"  Well,  I  do'  know  but  a  temp'ary  arrangement 
might  be  good  policy,  if  the  terms  was  low,"  he 
agreed ;  the  impression  of  the  sermon  rapidly  giving 
way  to  his  ordinary  fiscal  caution. 

Ravling  had  been  genuinely  pleased  by  Burlen's 


THE    TRIAL-SERMON.  189 

production  ;  and,  though  there  was  something  ap 
proaching  a  smouldering  dislike  between  them,  he 
expressed  his  pleasure  heartily.  The  candidate,  on 
his  side,  remembered  with  keen  discomfort  the  dis 
paraging  tone  in  which  he  had  overheard  the  lawyer 
commenting  on  his  graduation  address,  and  therefore 
received  his  encouragement  now  with  the  added  de 
light  of  surprise.  He  shook  Ravling's  hand  with  a 
quick,  glad  satisfaction ;  and  the  two  men,  as  they 
looked  at  one  another,  underwent  a  slight  change  of 
mind  which  resulted  in  mutual  respect,  even  though 
it  stopped  short  of  friendliness. 

Edith  said  nothing,  at  first.  It  even  seemed  to 
Burlen  that  she  established  a  distance  between  them, 
for  which  he  could  not  account.  But  as  they  were 
driving  back  to  the  farm,  Archdale  put  forth  a  few 
criticisms,  in  a  kindty  way ;  among  other  things 
raising  a  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  Burlen's  hav 
ing  introduced  those  veiy  legends  of  St.  Patrick 
which  Edith  and  the  young  man  had  been  so  much 
interested  in. 

"Oh,  papa!"  cried  Edith.  "I  think  that  was 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  of  all." 

She  turned  upon  her  father  with  a  look  of  surprise 
in  her  proud  3'oung  face,  that  had  in  it  at  the  same 
time  so  much  of  girlish  deference  and  simplicit}'. 
And  that  look  and  exclamation  certainty  added  much 
to  the  reward  which  Burlen's  whole-souled  endeavor 
in  his  sermon  had  already  brought  him. 

After  their  early  dinner  in  the  farm-house,  Whit- 
cot  and  Ravling  took  themselves  back  to  the  tent,  to 


190  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

smoke.  The  ladies  retired  into  a  suitable  Sunday 
privacy  of  reading,  letter-writing,  napping,  and  talk 
ing  over  dresses ;  and  before  long  Archdale  and 
Burlen,  though  they  did  not  smoke,  came  out  and 
joined  the  occupants  of  the  tent. 

The  Iaw3"er  was  looking  over  some  newspapers  of 
the  day  before,  when  they  entered,  but  laid  them 
aside  when  he  saw  Archdale. 

"This  is  a  terrible  affair  that  Linkinfoot  has  got 
into,"  he  remarked  gravely.  "  I  have  just  been  read 
ing  the  latest  reports  about  it.  I  wish  to  heavens 
it  could  all  be  cleared  up  and  dismissed." 

Linkinfoot  was  a  preacher  of  considerable  renown, 
whose  fame  had  at  that  time  recently  been  attacked 
by  charges  which  involved  it  in  an  appalling  scandal 
of  the  grossest  kind.  The  first  rumor  of  it  had  been 
received  with  disgusted  incredulity  by  the  public  ;  but 
matters  took  such  a  course  that  doubts  arose,  and 
then  a  sickening  disappointment  began  to  creep  into 
men's  minds. 

Ideas,  sentiments,  emotions,  travel  rapidly  in 
America,  because  of  the  simple  nature  of  society 
and  the  effectual  brotherhood  that  unites  closely  such 
large  masses  of  the  community.  Every  astounding 
or  unexpected  event  relating  to  even  one  person,  or 
a  small  group,  —  especially  if  they  stand  out  promi 
nently  in  the  public  view, — lias  a  widespread  in 
fluence  ;  even  more  than  is  usual  elsewhere,  because 
we  at  once,  knowing  that  the  nation  is  young  and 
feeling  all  that  hangs  upon  its  future,  try  to  judge  of 
this  event  as  revealing  to  us  something  of  ourselves 


THE   TRIAL-SERMON.  191 

unseen  before,  and  as  a  force  that  is  likely  to  have 
an  effect  on  our  general  development.  For  good  or 
evil,  this  sympathy  among  us  is  intense  ;  and  at  the 
time  of  the  Linkinfoot  scandal  it  was  carrying  into 
every  cranny  and  corner  which  the  press  could  reach 
a  wave  of  sorrow  and  discouragement. 

When  Ravling  referred  to  it,  it  had  not  }~et  reached 
the  stage  of  long  and  loathsome  reports  in  judicial 
proceedings  daily  made  public,  nor  had  people 
reached  the  callous  period  of  referring  to  it  in  gen 
eral  conversation  ;  and  the  four  gentlemen  talked  of 
it  together  with  a  sense  of  outrage  that  they  should 
be  forced  to  talk  of  it  at  all. 

They  got  rid  of  it  as  soon  as  possible ;  but  the 
next  subject  that  came  up  was  the  late  political  news, 
which  involved  assertions  of  enormous  frauds  in 
elections,  corrupt  machinations  among  party  leaders, 
and  charges  of  demoralizing  personal  favoritism  in 
the  conduct  of  certain  Government  financial  trans 
actions. 

"I  wonder  how  much  of  all  this  is  true,"  specu 
lated  Burlen,  wearily. 

"  The  trouble  is  that  both  parties,"  said  Archdale, 
"  keep  on  asserting  such  baseness  in  each  other, 
that  finallj*  neither  of  them  has  moral  sensitiveness 
enough  left  to  save  even  itself — much  less  the 
country." 

Whitcot,  however,  gave  it  as  his  belief  that  the 
whole  trouble  lay  in  the  unmitigated  wickedness  of 
the  Democrats.  "  Really,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of 
being  dazed  by  the  thought,  "  I  don't  see  how  such 


192  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

a  party  exists !  It  has  n't  a  single  virtuous  point 
about  it." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  does  exist,  if  that's  the  case," 
remarked  Ravling,  drily ;  though  he,  too,  was  a  Re 
publican. 

Burlen  belonged  to  the  same  part}',  when  it  came 
to  a  vote.  He  could  no  more  have  graduated  at 
Marie,  without  drifting,  theoretically  at  least,  into  the 
orthodox  political  creed  of  Massachusetts,  than  he 
could  have  induced  himself  to  turn  a  somersault 
while  preaching.  Nevertheless,  "I  don't  believe 
the  nation  is  divided  so  exactly  into  villains  and 
saints,"  he  asserted.  "  All  the  knaves  are  not  fools, 
and  some  of  them  will  get  on  to  the  winning  side, 
which  ever  it  is.  What  discourages  me  is  this  con 
tinual  story  of  wrong-doing,  which  seems  to  be  true 
of  both." 

"We  mustn't  despair,  though,"  said  Archdale, 
placidly.  (He  had  not  attended  an  election  for 
years.) 

"  That 's  just  what  I  think,  too,"  Burlen  was  quick 
to  reply.  u  But  if  we  are  not  to  despair,  we  must 
do  something !  In  politics  we  have  these  records  of 
corruption  and  compromise,  day  by  da^y. .  In  reli 
gious  life  we  begin  to  have  phenomena  like  this  of 
Linkinfoot.  In  business  we  have  a  few  men  grow 
ing  enormously  rich  l)y  rings  and  shams,  at  the 
expense  of  multitudes.  Everywhere  people  seem 
to  be  going  in  for  the  big  prizes,  and  principle  seems 
to  come  out  with  no  prizes  at  all.  That's  w^lry  I 
think  we  need  examples  of  sacrifice,  —  men  to  stand 


THE   TRIAL-SERMON.  193 

in  the  breach,  to  give  up  their  lives  to  some  ideal 
work  and  do  it  well,  even  if  it's  in  some  small  sphere 
and  imposes  poverty  on  them.  Practical  work  ought 
to  be  done  in  the  same  spirit,  too.  —  However,  I 
don't  mean  to  deliver  a  second  sermon  to-da}*,"  he 
concluded  with  a  smile,  which  gave  place  to  a  look 
of  earnest  meditation. 

"There  are  a  good  many  men  of  the  kind  you 
describe,"  said  Ravling,  "already." 

"I  know  there  are.  But  how  seldom  they  come 
into  the  ascendant !  Nothing  can  save  us  from 
deterioration,  unless  they  appear  everywhere,  in  all 
walks  of  life,  and  acquire  the  ruling  influence  again 
as  they  had  it  in  the  old  da}'s  of  the  Republic. 
We  're  too  successful,  we  grow  too  fast  and  make 
wealth  too  easily,  to  be  safe  without  counteracting 
forces." 

Nobody  answered,  and  they  relapsed  into  uneasy 
reflection.  None  of  the  four  felt  anxiety  as  to  im 
mediate  national  disaster :  no  American  does.  But, 
looking  long  j'ears  ahead,  each  one  was  clearly  con 
scious  of  injurious  powers  subtly  at  work,  which 
might  in  the  end  sap  and  crumble  away  much  that 
was  fairest  and  noblest  in  the  country. 

As  they  walked  back  to  the  house  together,  Bnr- 
len  told  Archdale  of  Pride's  remark  about  the 
desert.  "The  recent  news  gives  it  still  greater 
point  than  it  had  when  I  first  heard  it,"  was  his 
comment.  "A  moral  desert  is  slowly  blowing 
and  spreading  among  us,  just  like  that  one ;  but 
13 


194  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

because  there  is  so  much  fertile  ground  left,  people 
hardly  notice  it." 

"  I  don't  understand  your  being  so  despondent, 
Robert,"  said  Archdale.  "It's  not  natural  in  a 
young  man." 

"  I'm  not  despondent,"  his  former  pupil  answered 
him;  "I'm  very  hopeful.  But  mayn't  it  be  that 
young  e3'es  sometimes  see  farther  than  old  ones,  — 
even  in  these  things  ?  " 


A  FRIENDLY  ENEMY.  195 


XVII. 

A   FRIENDLY   ENEMY. 

WHAT  had  struck  Whitcot  more  than  anything 
else  on  the  occasion  of  Burleii's  sermon  was, 
that  he  had  seen  Ida  Hiss  listening  attentive!}'  in  an 
out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  gallery.  She  did  not 
seem  in  place  there,  and  his  hazy  hypothesis  in  re 
gard  to  her  again  began  to  float  before  him  and  take 
a  more  positive  shape.  Such  a  girl  as  she  seemed 
to  be  could  hardly,  he  thought,  be  in  the  habit  of 
corning  to  church  ;  but  if  she  were  Burlen's  sister,  it 
might  well  be  that,  under  cover  of  her  assumed  name 
and  feeling  secure  against  recognition,  she  should 
wish  to  hear  her  brother,  who  had  been  brought  by 
accident  so  near  her. 

He  woke  up  during  the  night,  in  the  tent,  and 
thought  of  this  again.  But  that  time  his  whole 
suspicion  appeared  to  him  the  frailest  kind  of  phan 
tasm.  He  had  manufactured  it  out  of  nothing  !  He 
would  put  it  out  of  his  mind. 

The  morning  only  increased  the  unreality  of  his 
imaginings.  Still,  he  did  not  altogether  put  them 
away. 

Archdale  was  to  leave  them  on  that  day,  and  go 
back  to  his  Apologists  at  Marie  ;  so  that  the  morning 
was  a  good  deal  occupied  in  seeing  him  off.  But, 


196  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

notwithstanding  this,  TVhitcot  had  opportunity  before 
afternoon  to  observe  —  as  he  fancied  —  a  noticeable 
change  in  Edith.  His  recent  sentimental  advance 
towards  her  had  left  him  rather  confident  than  other 
wise  ;  and  their  old  acquaintance  had  enabled  them 
to  go  on  meeting  among  the  rest,  without  embarrass 
ment,  while  he  was  meditating  how  and  when  he 
should  next  speak  to  her.  But  to-day  he  began  to 
fear  that  he  had  been  reckoning  hastily.  She  obvi 
ously  was  indifferent  to  his  existence.  She  was 
abstracted  and  altered  in  manner ;  there  was  a  cer 
tain  dreaminess  in  her  eyes,  unnoticed  by  him  be 
fore.  And,  worse  than  all,  he  could  see  that  she  was 
observing  Burlen  and  attending  to  everything  he 
said,  with  an  interest  that  threatened  to  obliterate 
every  other. 

He  had  discovered,  in  talking  with  her  the  even 
ing  before,  her  high  opinion  of  the  sermon  ;  and  it 
did  not  take  him  long  to  infer  from  that  and  from 
the  present  signs  that  Burlen  had  at  last  perhaps 
really  touched  deeply  responsive  chords  in  her. 

The  conclusion  set  him  thinking  again  about  the 
lost  sister,  Thyrsa  Burlen.  Plow  very  convenient  it 
would  be,  now,  if  Ida  Hiss  should  prove  to  be  she! 
Ought  he  not  at  least  to  put  Mrs.  Savland  and  Edith 
in  possession  of  what  he  had  learned  as  to  the  cleri 
cal  candidate's  past?  He  was  suddenly  smitten  with 
a  high  regard  for  his  own  magnanimity  in  having 
kept  it  to  himself  so  long.  But,  no !  On  second 
thought,  it  might  savor  of  under-handed  envy,  if  he 
went  to  Edith  with  this  tale.  He  flattered  himself 


A   FRIENDLY  ENEMY.  197 

that  he  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  run  that 
risk  —  even  for  her  benefit.  He  would  go  directly 
to  Buiien  and  tell  him  what  had  occurred  to  him  in 
regard  to  Ida. 

Seeing  him  start  off  down  the  brook-glen  with  a 
book  in  his  hand,  he  followed  with  a  trout-pole, 
though  there  were  no  fish  to  be  caught  at  this  season, 
and  managed  thus  to  come  conveniently  upon  him. 

41  Ah,"  cried  Burlen,  as  he  approached  ;  "  fishing? 
What  for?  —  bobolinks  or  butterflies?" 

"  Neither,"  Whitcot  answered  seriously.  "  I 
think  I'm  a  fisher  of  men,  this  time.  I'm  after 
you." 

"  I  '11  consider  myself  caught,  then." 

"  I  want  to  speak  with  you  in  private.  Suppose 
we  walk  up  under  the  trees  there." 

Decidedly  curious  to  know  what  confidential  com 
munication  was  about  to  be  made,  Burlen  closed  his 
book  and  went  with  him.  A  few  general  remarks 
were  made,  and  then  as  they  came  under  the  shade 
of  the  trees  Whitcot,  who  had  laid  his  plan  carefully, 
stopped,  turned  towards  his  companion,  and  look 
ing  into  his  eyes  said:  "I  think  I've  found  your 
sister."  - 

Buiien's  face  flushed  violently:  his  eyes  flashed 
with  what  might  have  been  either  supreme  excite 
ment  or  rising  menace.  In  an  instant  he  became 
calmer,  and  asked  coldly  :  "  My  sister?  Where?" 

"  Here  —  at  Savage's." 

"I  have  never  mentioned  her  to  you.  What  do 
you  know  about  her?  What  right  have  you  to 


198  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

speak?"  Burlen's  voice  had  sunk,  but  there  was 
something  vindictive  and  biting  in  its  tones. 

Whitcot  began  to  be  frightened  at  the  force  of  the 
blast  to  which  he  had  touched  his  match. 

"  I  know  all  the  facts,"  he  said,  rather  timorously, 
"  and  I  have  come  to  you  simply  as  a  friend." 

"  A  friend  —  with  a  knife  in  your  hand  !  " 

"  Oh,  if  3*ou're  going  to  be  violent  —  " 

"  I  beg  3*our  pardon."  Burlen  put  a  strong  pres 
sure  upon  himself.  "  Tell  me  your  reasons,  then. 
But  be  quick  !  " 

Whitcot  gave  a  rapid  explanation.  "It's  the 
very  woman  I  spoke  to  you  about  at  the  hotel,  the 
day  we  came,"  he  concluded.  "  The  waitress  there. 
You  remember?" 

"Yes;  but  you  say  she  bears  another  name. 
Besides,  why  should  n't  /  have  thought  of  it,  when 
I  saw  her?  Do  you  think  3*011  see  airy  —  any  —  " 

"Resemblance,  you  mean?  Well,  I  don't  know. 
I'm  not  positive,  of  course.  And  then  perhaps  it's 
all  a  fane}'  of  mine,  any  wa}V  To  his  surprise  the 
engineer,  when  lie  saw  the  other  man's  agitation, 
found  himself  rather  anxious  to  soften  or  smooth 
away  the  trouble  he  had  caused.  And  this  confirmed 
him  in  his  fallacious  belief  that  there  was  nothing  of 
malice  in  the  motive  which  had  brought  him  to  take 
his  present  step. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  recognize  your  sister 
yourself,  now?" 

"  I  doubt  if  I  could  judge  with  certaint}',"  his  vic 
tim  returned,  despondently.  "It  is  eleven  years 
since  I  saw  her." 


A   FRIENDLY  ENEMY.  199 

"  That  would  make  her  how  old?" 

"About  thirty.  And  in  these  years,  especially, 
she  must  have  changed  greath7." 

"  I  don't  think  this  girl  Ida  can  be  so  old  as  that," 
said  Whitcot,  impartially. 

"  You  don't?     There  is  a  doubt,  then?  " 

"  She  might  be,  though,  —  it 's  very  hard  to  tell,  — 
she  's  such  a  ir^sterious  creature."  Whitcot's  com 
passion  began  to  cool  again,  the  moment  he  became 
less  confident  of  his  position. 

44 1  can't  bear  this  suspense  !  "  exclaimed  Burlen, 
in  a  tone  of  revolt.  "I  must  see  her  myself.  I 
must  see  her !  "  And  he  made  a  few  strides  away 
in  the  direction  of  the  village,  as  if  for  immediate 
execution  of  that  purpose. 

44  By  all  means  you  must  see  her,"  said  Richard, 
coolly.  "  That  was  what  I  was  going  to  propose." 

"  Come,  then  !  "  almost  shouted  his  companion. 

"I  must  warn  }'ou,"  said  the  adviser,  "that  it's 
not  easy  to  see  her  —  with  safety." 

"What  do  3Tou  mean?"  The  young  preacher 
frowned  sternly  upon  him. 

"  I  mean  there  's  a  man  in  the  way." 

Burlen  smote  his  forehead  with  his  hand.  His 
whole  frame  visibly  shook  with  wrath  and  horror. 
Then  he  moaned,  in  surrender  to  the  worst:  "Go 
on.  Tell  me  the  whole.  What  is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  Richard  blandly  confessed,  "  ex 
cept  this,  that  the  fellow  has  some  hold  upon  her 
—  upon  Ida  Hiss,  mind  :  she  may  not  be  }Tour  sister, 
you  know.  But  he  watches  her  like  a  lynx,  and  is  as 


200  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

full  of  jealousy  as  a  powder-magazine  is  of  danger." 
He  then  related  something  of  his  own  experiences 
with  Rudyard,  and  the  way  in  which  lie  had  been 
pursued  by  him.  "  I  laughed  at  him  for  his  prowl 
ing,  when  I  saw  him  in  the  village  afterwards,"  he 
said.  "But  I  have  no  desire  to  be  mixed  up  with 
him  and  his  jealousies  again." 

"What  is  all  this  to  me?"  Burlen  demanded, 
angrily. 

"  It  simply  shows  you  why  I  haven't  been  able 
to  make  any  inquiries  of  her  before  speaking  to 
you,  and  why  you  'd  better  be  cautious  in  your 
movements." 

"Very  well;  what's  to  be  done,  then?  Speak! 
Don't  you  see  I'm  bewildered  —  helpless?  Do  3-011 
understand  what  I  feel,  and  do  you  think  it 's  manly 
to  go  on  torturing  me  ?  "  The  candidate  for  the 
ministry  seized  him  by  the  arm,  with  an  iron  grip. 
"  Come,  I  want  to  know." 

"Let  go  of  me  first!"  Whitcot  commanded 
hotly.  He  was  furious  at  the  other's  touch.  "  Gen 
tlemen  don't  converse  with  the  aid  of  their  fists." 

Burlen  relaxed  his  grasp.  The  taunt  made  him 
quiver,  but  it  also  gave  him  self-control  in  the  con 
tempt  he  began  to  feel  for  his  professed  friend. 
"  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  that 's  to  the  pur 
pose  ?  "  he  asked. 

Whitcot  looked  sullen,  but  gradually  regained  his 
composure.  "I  had  thought  of  a  plan,"  he  said, 
distantly.  "  There  's  going  to  be  a  sort  of  assembly 
of  a  charitable  'association  among  the  woollen-mill 


A   FRIENDLY  ENEMY.  201 

people  in  the  village,  Wednesday  evening,  and  she  '11 
probably  be  there  on  Rudyard's  account.  We  might 
go  there,  without  much  trouble." 

"  I  suppose  it's  possible,"  Burlen  returned,  drear 
ily.  "  How  can  we  find  out  about  it?  " 

"  Here  's  the  announcement,"  said  Whitcot,  draw 
ing  from  his  pocket  a  crumpled  hand-bill.  "  It  was 
given  me  at  the  hotel." 

The  document  read  thus  :  — 

LEVEE ! 

The  Union  Mills  C.  B.  Association. 

AT  TOWN  HALL. 

2^=  This  is  intended  to  be  a  thoroughly  sociable  affair. 
Music  AND  DANCING. 

Oysters,  Candy,  Ice-cream,  etc. 

COME  EARLY  AND  HAVE  A  GOOD  TIME  ! 

Burlen  read  it  twice,  with  listless  disgust ;  and  the 
crude  hilarity  of  its  wording  seemed  to  1)6  aimed 
mockingly  at  himself.  "  A  good  time  !  "  he  repeated, 
under  his  breath.  "Well,"  he  said  aloud,  returning 
the  bill,  "if  there's  no  better  way,  I'll  make  the 
experiment.  You  will  go  with  me  ?  " 

"Certainly,  if  you  prefer." 

"And  meanwhile  it's  understood,  I  suppose,  that 
until  further  developments  you  will  keep  this  matter 
to  yourself?" 


202  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Of  course,  Burlen.  What  do  you  take  me  for?  " 
Whitcot  rejoined  with  beaming  generosity. 

They  then  separated,  and  the  student  walked 
further  on  toward  the  sandy  stretch.  When  he  was 
out  of  sight,  he  sank  down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  over 
come  with  wretchedness.  "It  was  an  omen,  after 
all,"  he  murmured.  "  That  semblance  of  two  figures 
"means  a  parting,  a  long  farewell;  and  I  am  to  be 
parted  from  Edith  !  I  see.  This  is  to  be  my  sacri 
fice."  His  own  sermon  was  coming  home  to  him. 

"Dear  me  sus  !  That  cellar-door  won't  jag  no 
how  !  "  groaned  Mrs.  Pride,  as  she  came  into  the 
sitting-room  that  evening,  having  just  brought  up 
from  the  home  of  the  house-adder  a  glass  of  milk  for 
Mrs.  Savland  to  take  just  before  going  to  bed.  "I 
s'pose  you  think  I  'm  in  a  dreadful  pheese  about  it. 
Well,  so  I  am  and  no  mistake.  Besides,  everything 
seems  to  be  pernicketty  to-day.  There  's  Ann  Fern- 
low  come  up  this  arternoon  for  some  soft  soap,  but 
her  pail  wa'n't  bailed  true,  nor  nothin' ;  so  she 
could  n't  carry  it.  What 's  more,  father  had  n't  got 
the  soap  ready,  and  she  could  n't  have  carried  it  if  it 
had  been  bailed,  —  the  pail  that  is  ;  and  Tim'thy,  he 
would  n't  even  come  and  say  Bo-to-a-goose  to  her. 
I  don'  know  what  in  poky  's  come  over  Tim'thy,  late 
days  ;  he  don't  pay  no  sort  o'  'tention  to  her,  and  yet 
a  nicer,  handier  gal  you  don't  find  this  side  Monad- 
noc,  take  it  as  you  ma}'  from  one  degree  of  attitude 
to  another  !  I  more  'n  half  believe  it 's  that  terr'ble 
Ida  gal  down  to  the  village  'at 's  brewing  mischief 


A   FRIENDLY  ENEMY.  203 

atween  him  and  Ann.  Now  should  3-011  s'pose  any 
one'd  do  so?" 

Here  the  ancient  woman,  having  set  down  the 
milk,  contemplated  Edith  and  her  aunt  earnestly  ; 
her  gray  and  white  face  twitching  uneasily,  as  old 
faces  and  old  cobwebs  do  when  they  have  hung  too 
long  in  the  same  place  and  are  disturbed. 

41  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Savland,  with  refined  pre 
cision,  "I've  no  idea  who  the  person  is  you  allude 
to,  and  I  can't  in  the  least  form  a  judgment." 

"And  then  there's  Mr.  Burlen,"  continued  Mrs. 
Pride,  gliding  to  another  subject,  without  the  least 
ruffle  at  this  rebuke,  —  "  there's  another  thing  that'  s 
all  quirky.  Why  did  n't  he  come  down  to  tea,  I  'd 
like  to  be  told?"  In  fact,  the  student  had  kept 
his  room  that  evening,  not  even  appearing  at  the 
table.  "He  said  he  didn't  feel  quite  chirk,  you 
know,  this  eve  ;  but  I  guess  you  *d  ought  to  know 
somethin'  about  that,  Miss  Edith.  I've  sort  o' 
skirtled  it  all  round  in  my  mind,  and  that's  about 
what  I  make  it,  that  he 's  just  where  you  can  make 
him  as  mis'ble  as  you  a  min'  to.  Now  don't  bear 
down  on  him  too  hard.  Take  an  old  mother's  ad 
vice,  that's  sort  o'  blinked  in  a  few  idees  while  she  's 
been  a  dnstin'  round  this  poor  world  of  ours." 

Mrs  Savland's  little  sand-papered  features  had 
sharply  contracted  with  horror  while  this  speech  was 
delivering,  and  she  was  prompt  to  utter  at  its  close 
an  admonition  to  this  effect :  "  I  must  beg  you,  Mrs. 
Pride,  not  to  bring  up  again  a  subject  of  this  sort, 
which  does  n't  concern  }"ou.  If  my  niece  needs  ad 
vice,  she  will  come  to  me." 


204  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

"Well,  well,  suit  yourself,  Miss  Edith,"  retorted 
the  housewife,  indirectly.  "One  old  woman's  as 
good  as  another,  I  guess.  But  you  can  take  your 
pick,  /ain't  proud." 

The  fact  remained  that  Edith  was  not  a  little 
disconcerted  at  Burlen's  indisposition,  which  she 
could  n't  help  suspecting  —  though  she  did  not  know 
why  —  was  more  a  mental  trouble  than  anything  else. 

There  was  a  pallor  in  his  brown  complexion  the 
next  morning.  She  also  noticed  how  harassed  and 
miserable  he  looked,  during  all  that  day  and  the  one 
following.  He  remained  as  much  as  possible  alone. 
The  truth  was,  that  he  suffered  almost  as  keenly  from 
self-reproach  as  he  did  from  dread  of  the  discovery 
that  seemed  to  be  impending  over  him.  All  these 
years  he  had  been  looking  forward  to  finding  the  lost 
Thyrsa ;  for  a  long  time,  as  he  had  told  Archdale,  he 
had  believed  that  this  was  his  indispensable  dutjT, 
without  the  performance  of  which  no  other  obligation 
could  be  faithfully  carried  out.  Many  a  time  he  had 
looked  forward  with  joy  to  a  possible  reunion  with 
this  sole  remaining  being  to  whom  close  ties  of  blood 
bound  him.  And  now,  —  now  when  the  moment  for 
it  approached,  —  how  did  he  feel?  Reluctance  and 
despair  had  taken  the  place  of  that  imagined  joy. 
He  did  not  wish  to  meet  his  sister.  Week  by  week, 
without  fully  anah'zing  his  own  state  of  mind,  he 
had  come  to  feel  that  he  was  getting  nearer  and 
more  near  to  the  goal  of  winning  Edith  ;  and  he  had 
shifted  the  whole  fabric  of  his  future  to  the  founda 
tion  of  that  hope.  Formerly  it  had  been  the  recovery 


A   FRIENDLY  ENEMY.  205 

of  Thyrsa,  on  which  his  plans  had  depended  :  now  it 
was  the  gaining  of  Edith's  love  that  seemed  essential 
to  his  success  in  the  world  ;  and  with  him  success 
meant  usefulness. 

But  all  this,  he  told  himself,  was  cowardice.  By 
a  prodigious  effort  he  brought  himself  back  to  a  sense 
of  his  duty  to  the  one  remaining  member  of  his  fam 
ily.  If  she  was  really  near  him  at  last,  he  must  go 
and  seek  her  unflinchingly,  devotedly. 

But  before  the  time  came  for  going  to  the  "  socia 
ble  affair"  of  the  "  Union  Mills  C.  B.  Association," 
—  whatever  that  might  mean,  —  he  matured  a  resolve 
which  he  did  not  impart  to  Whitcot.  He  could  not 
depend  upon  the  engineer,  whom  he  knew  to  be  a 
possible  opponent  to  his  success  with  Edith.  There 
was  no  one  indeed  on  whom  he  could  depend,  ex 
cept  Archdale. 

Accordingly  he  made  an  excuse  to  get  to  the  vil 
lage  before  Whitcot,  on  the  appointed  Wednesday ; 
and  there  he  sent  off  a  despatch  asking  Doctor 
Archdale  to  return  immediately  to  the  scene  he 
had  barely  left. 

Having  accomplished  this,  he  waited  for  his  self- 
appointed  friend,  as  had  been  agreed,  in  the  porch 
of  Savage's  Hotel.  From  there  the}'  proceeded  in 
company  to  the  Town  Hall. 

The  room  had  been  decorated  for  the  evening's 
festivities  with  sundry  pine-boughs  and  streamers  ; 
an  extraordinary  collection  of  lamps  added  to  its 
dowdy  brilliancy,  and  a  large  crowd  of  people  in 
would-be  showy  attire  were  already  assembled,  when 


206  IK  THE  DISTANCE. 

the  two  entered.  The  "levee"  being  an  important 
one,  Ann  Fernlow  and  Timotlry  had  also  made  their 
way  there,  and  Burlen  descried  them  before  long 
amid  the  slowly-moving  mass.  In  one  corner  a 
slender  partition  of  scantlings  and  thin  stringers 
covered  with  feebly  painted  cloth  had  been  raised, 
separating  from  the  main  hall  the  refreshment  de 
partment,  which  was  approached  through  an  arched 
entrance  glittering  with  tinsel.  After  a  time,  a  short 
man  with  puffy  cheeks  and  a  white  waistcoat  made 
his  appearance  on  the  permanent  platform  at  one 
side  of  the  room,  and  putting  his  hand  up  in  a  listen 
ing  position  near  his  ear, — as  if  he  had  just  heard 
something  of  singular  importance,  —  succeeded  in 
attracting  attention  and  producing  silence.  The 
wandering  throng  hereupon  paused  and  listened  to 
some  gloomy  recitations  from  an  actor  "who  had 
kindly  consented,  being  in  the  neighborhood,"  etc., 
and  received  them  with  sternly  conscientious  ap 
plause.  He  was  followed  by  a  ventriloquist,  who 
soon  threw  them  into  successive  spasms  of  genu 
ine  laughter.  And  when  these  performances  were 
completed,  a  small  band  struck  up,  and  the  dancing 
began. 

Whitcot  had  already  pointed  out  Rudyard  to  his 
companion  ;  but  the}'  had  not  as  }*et  seen  Ida.  A 
curious  old  fishers'  hornpipe  was  being  danced,  in 
which  Major  Brown  had  joined,  so  as  to  show  the 
others  the  fine  points  of  the  steps  as  they  used  to  be 
executed  when  he  was  a  young  man.  Ann  Fernlow 
his  partner,  and  he  treated  her  with  an  elabora- 


A   FRIENDLY  ENEMY.  207 

tion  of  gallantly  at  which  Timothy  stared  in  amaze, 
from  the  edge  of  the  surrounding  crowd.  Ann  was 
attired  in  a  plain  black  dress,  which  fitted  remarka 
bly  well,  and  left  no  baggy  folds  that  might  harbor  a 
doubt  as  to  the  natural  grace  of  her  yout&ful  figure. 
A  narrow  rim  of  white  collar  showed  just  within  the 
black  of  the  dress,  where  it  closed  evenly  and  with  a 
kind  of  primness  around  her  throat.  There  was  also 
a  small  knot  of  cherry  ribbon  at  that  point,  and  a 
bow  of  it  on  her  black  hair.  Her  eyes  sparkled  with 
excitement,  and  there  was  a  pretty  color  in  her 
cheeks.  No  time  for  bashfulness  was  allowed  in  this 
energetic  hornpipe.  There  was  a  constant  forming 
and  reforming  of  lines  and  groups ;  the  dancers 
shifted  here  and  there  punctually  to  the  brisk  tune  of 
"  Comin'  Thro'  the  Rye."  Now  there  was  a  row  of 
men  facing  a  row  of  women,  all  of  them  shaking 
about  gently  as  if  they  had  been  mounted  on  wire 
springs.  Major  Brown  passed  into  romantic  retire 
ment  behind  the  row  of  men,  and  there  executed  a 
very  singular  pas  seul  with  man}'  eccentric  little  skips 
and  flings  of  the  feet,  such  as  the  victim  of  a  hope 
less  love  might  be  expected  to  indulge  in  during  his 
solitary  walks  ;  while  Ann  Fernlow,  screened  by  the 
women  on  the  other  side,  tripped  up  and  down  in  a 
daintier  manner,  the  crimson  bow  fluttering  on  her 
head  with  a  heartlessly  coquettish  motion.  Then  the 
two  "moved  around  the  ends  of  their  respective  rows, 
discovered  each  other  in  an  accidental  way,  and 
apparently  came  to  an  understanding  with  startling 
swiftness  ;  for  they  at  once  joined  hands  and  pranced 


208  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

contentedly  down  the  lane  between  the  men  and 
women.  There  was  more  confusion  and  more  turn 
ing ;  after  which  another  swain  and  another  lass 
enacted  the  same  silent  episode,  with  the  same  happy 
result.  Another  figure  brought  the  united  couples 
face  to  face,  whereupon  they  began  to  skip  from  side 
to  side  with  several  sprightly  steps  each  way,  as  if 
unable  to  determine  how  they  should  pass  each 
other ;  and,  being  unable  to  settle  the  question,  they 
gave  it  up  and  danced  off  into  new  combinations. 

At  last  the  band  ceased  to  come  through  the  rye, 
and  the  tired  hornpipers  stopped,  amid  a  clapping  of 
hands  from  the  on-lookers.  Ann  and  the  Major  came 
out  with  the  chief  honors. 

Just  at  that  moment  Burlen,  who  had  been  stand 
ing  beside  the  tinsel  archwa}',  turned  and  found  him 
self  within  two  or  three  feet  of  the  person  he  had 
been  looking  for.  Ida  was  just  coming  out  from  the 
refreshment  department.  She  stopped  short  and 
looked  at  him  piercingly.  So  great  was  his  nervous 
tension,  that  this  action  and  the  shock  of  seeing  her 
so  unexpectedly  almost  convinced  him  that  he  stood 
before  his  sister.  He  was  on  the  point  of  uttering 
her  name,  when  Ida,  glancing  away  again,  passed 
rapidly  by  and  made  her  way  into  the  crowd. 

The  young  man  felt  a  cold  perspiration  starting 
out  on  his  face.  He  hurried  to  Whitcot.  "I  shall 
be  taken  sick  if  I  stay  here,"  he  whispered.  "I 
can't  endure  it." 

"  You  saw  her,  just  now?  " 

"  Yes."    The  word  was  hardly  audible. 


A   FRIENDLY  ENEMY.  209 

< '  Well  ?     What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  It's  impossible  to  think.  I'm 
all  unstrung." 

Whitcot  again  pitied  him.  "  Are  you  going  away 
now?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes.     I  '11  go  alone." 

"  Very  well.     Don't  be  too  much  cut  up,  though." 

Burlen,  without  replying,  made  haste  to  get  off, 
much  to  the  regret  of  some  of  the  Second  Church 
people,  who  had  been  greatly  pleased  and  somewhat 
flattered  by  his  coming  to  the  levee,  and  now  vainly 
tried  to  detain  him. 

As  he  tramped  back  through  the  warm  and  scented 
darkness,  the  moon  stood  slenderly  curved  in  the 
sky,  as  if  balancing  itself  on  some  unseen  pinnacle 
higher  than  the  mountains.  Its  light  and  the  fresh 
air  quieted  him  somewhat,  and  he  decided  to  stroll 
along  a  lower  road,  near  the  river,  before  returning 
to  Pride's.  He  made  the  detour  accordingly,  and, 
finding  that  he  could  think  over  his  affairs  better 
here,  he  sat  down  on  the  flat  stones  of  a  wall  above 
the  river,  in  deep  shadow.  The  moon  did  not  so 
much  illuminate  the  rounded  fields  and  the  woods 
that  were  drawn  into  sharp  points  or  long  curves 
by  the  broken  conformation,  as  it  enveloped  them 
in  mysterious  tintings  vaguely  blent  with  white ; 
although  the  brooding,  secret  waters  of  the  stream 
were  touched  with  flitting  sparkles  of  sharper  radi 
ance.  There  was  a  fitness  in  this  dim,  uncertain 
coloring,  as  regarded  his  own  mood.  Everything 
was  very  still,  and  the  dam  in  the  village  rumbled 
14 


210  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"with  a  low  sound  no  more  obtrusive  than  that  of  a 
bumble-bee.  He  had  sat  motionless  a  long  time  in 
the  shadow,  and  began  to  think  of  going,  when  a 
rustling  of  leaves  in  some  hazel-growth  between  his 
position  and  the  Contoocook  attracted  his  attention. 
It  was  too  positive  to  have  been  caused  by  the  wind. 

He  paused,  wondering  why  any  one  else  should 
have  chosen  to  ramble  this  wa}^  at  so  late  an  hour, 
and  became  still  more  alert  when  he  heard  subdued 
voices  in  that  direction.  The  crackling  of  some 
twigs  and  the  pushing  of  leafy  boughs  proved  that 
the  persons  from  whom  the  voices  came  were  pro 
ceeding  along  the  river-side,  and  would  soon  appear 
on  the  open  ground.  The  tones  were  serious,  and 
were  those  of  a  man  and  woman.  The  man's  voice, 
even  at  that  distance,  appealed  to  his  memory. 

Could  his  suspicion  be  correct?  He  got  quietly 
into  the  low  branches  of  a  dense-foliaged  maple  be 
side  the  wall- top,  in  order  to  see  better  and  without 
being  seen.  In  a  moment,  the  two  untimely  strollers 
emerged  into  view. 

Burlen  could  scarcely  control  his  excitement  as  the 
form  of  Ida  Hiss  outlined  itself  in  the  dim,  greenish 
field,  two  or  three  rods  away.  Again,  the  man  who 
was  walking  beside  her  said  something  argumenta- 
tively. 

Yes  ;  there  could  be  no  doubt.     It  was  Whitcot ! 


REINFORCEMENTS.  211 


XVIII. 

REINFORCEMENTS . 

BURLEN  retreated  from  his  post  of  observation 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  set  out  again  on  the 
walk  to  Pride's  hill.  His  pulse  was  beating  rapidly, 
for  he  felt  sure  that  he  had  detected  his  friendly 
enemy's  true  character.  "VVhitcot's  effort  to  prevent 
his  meeting  with  the  girl,  and  then  this  clandestine 
consultation  by  night  seemed  to  show  clearly  enough 
that  some  plot  was  hatching.  Exactly  what  it  might 
be  he  exhausted  conjecture  in  trying  to  settle ;  but 
vainly. 

A  light  was  burning  in  the  tent  as  he  came  within 
sight  of  it.  He  went  up  to  it  and  looked  in.  Rav- 
ling  was  there  alone,  reading. 

"  Whitcot  has  n't  got  back  yet,  I  suppose,"  Burlcn 
hazarded. 

"No.  It's  after  eleven,  but  I  have  to  mount 
guard  till  he  comes.  Can't  leave  the  light  burning, 
and  go  to  sleep  :  tent  might  burn,  too." 

Burlen  explained  that  he  had  left  Whitcot  in  the 
hall  a  good  while  before.  "  He  found  it  more  enter 
taining  than  I  did.  I  've  been  so  leisurely  about 
climbing  up  here  that  I  thought  I  'd  see  whether  he 
had  forestalled  me.  —  Good  night." 

u  Good  night,"  said  Ravling. 


212  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

The  candidate  could  no  longer  imagine  that  he 
had  in  any  way  deceived  himself  as  to  the  identity  of 
the  loiterer,  but  he  went  to  his  room  without  waiting 
for  any  explanations  that  night.  "  If  he  has  no 
wish  to  conceal  something,  he  will  tell  me  in  the 
morning  what  he  has  been  about,"  he  reflected. 

But  the  morning  brought  no  disclosure.  The 
engineer  gave  no  sign  of  communicativeness. 

44  You  were  late  last  night,"  said  Burlen,  signifi 
cantly,  when  they  got  a  moment  or  two  alone. 

"Yes,  quite." 

"  And  did  n't  you  arrive  at  anything,  in  your  inter 
view  by  the  river  ?  " 

Whitcot  started.  "  Ah,"  he  sneered,  "  you  were 
within  sight  after  we  parted,  and  }Tet  would  n't  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  ?  " 

"  I  doubted  whether  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
either  of  us  just  then,"  Burlen  retorted.  "  Besides, 
Rudyard,  you  know,  is  dangerous  !  Had  you  chained 
him  up,  out  of  the  way,  that  you  dared  to  be  out 
with  — with  Ida?" 

"If  j'ou  want  to  practise  rhetoric,  Burlen,  take 
some  other  occasion.  Because  you  accidentally 
caught  sight  of  me  under  circumstances  which  you 
don't  understand,  you  are  kind  enough  to —  By 
the  way,  what  is  it  you  're  kind  enough  to  suspect?  " 

"Nothing.  I'm  simple  enough,  though,  to  think 
secrec}'  of  movement  and  reticence  on  }Tour  part  de 
cidedly  out  of  place  in  this  matter." 

"  Yes  ;  because  }*ou  're  not  capable  of  imagining 
that  I  was  willing  to  run  some  risk,  in  order  to  have 


R  E  IN  FOR  CEMEN  TS.  213 

a  talk  with  this  girl  and  try  to  find  out  something 
definite." 

"  I  can  imagine  it ;  but  why  were  n't  you  ready  to 
tell  me  of  it  at  once  ?  "  asked  the  student  of  divinity, 
beginning  to  condemn  his  own  haste. 

"  Simply  because  there  was  nothing  worth  telling. 
I  could  n't  gain  any  knowledge  from  her.  —  And 
now,"  pursued  Whitcot,  "  perhaps  you  will  allow 
me  to  be  incensed  at  your  reticence.  You  might 
have  told  me  you  had  telegraphed  for  Archdale  to 
come  to-day." 

"  How  did  you  learn  that  I  had?" 

"In  the  easiest  possible  way.  The  operator  told 
me,  at  the  levee.  He  wanted  to  know  if  any  one 
was  ill  here."  Saying  this,  the  engineer  took  out  a 
cigar  and  lighted  it ;  looking  cynical  the  while,  as  if 
his  faith  in  humanity  were  gone,  and  tobacco  alone 
could  be  depended  on. 

Each  having  mistrusted  the  other,  the}7  were 
obliged  to  compromise  summarily  and  open  a  new 
account  of  mutual  confidence.  Burlen  yielded  grace 
fully  to  the  situation,  though  it  did  not  please  him. 

The  truth  as  to  Whitcot's  proceedings  had  been  as 
follows  :  Dissatisfied  with  the  very  slight  and  doubt 
ful  result  of  his  attempt  to  disconcert  his  rival,  he 
decided,  even  at  the  hazard  of  trouble  with  Rudyard, 
to  consult  Ida  herself  on  the  subject  of  her  assumed 
identity  with  Tlrp-sa  Burlen.  "  If  she  really  is  that 
person,  it 's  time  for  me  to  know  it,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "  And  if  she  is  n't  —  "  At  this  point  his  mute 
soliloquy  became  indefinite.  It  was  not  quite  clear 


214  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

to  him  what  he  should  do,  in  that  case.  When  a  man 
who  esteems  himself  respectable  is  drifting  nearer 
and  nearer  to  rascalitj',  there  is  quite  likely  to  be 
some  part  of  the  course  lying  before  him  which  he 
instinctively  prefers  to  leave  undetermined. 

Whitcot  seized  a  chance,  while  standing  near  Ida 
in  the  crowd  at  the  levee,  to  exchange  a  few  words 
with  her  in  an  undertone.  He  told  her  he  had  some 
thing  very  important  for  her  to  hear  without  delay ; 
must  speak  with  her  alone  that  night.  She  took 
this  very  coolly,  —  which  in  so  far  he  considered  a 
good  sign, — and  immediately  contrived  means  for 
eluding  Rudyard  and  meeting  the  engineer  at  a 
spot  which  she  prescribed  for  him,  just  outside  of 
the  village. 

There  he  at  once  broached  the  subject  in  his  mind  ; 
but  when  he  put  the  direct,  crucial  question,  she  ap 
peared  rather  alarmed. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  answer,"  she  affirmed  finally. 

"  That  settles  it,"  said  Whitcot.  "  If  you  were  n't 
Thyrsa  Burlen,  you  would  n't  hesitate  about  an 
swering." 

The  girl  laughed  at  him.  "  I  don't  answer,"  she 
said,  "because  you've  got  no  business  to  think 
I'm  pretending;  and  I  don't  choose  to  talk  with 
you  about  it." 

Whitcot  made  a  feint  of  quitting  the  subject,  and 
entered  into  some  slight  banter,  to  which  she  put  an 
end  by  sa3'ing:  "You  told  me  there  was  something 
very  important  for  me  to  know.  What  is  it?" 

He  proposed  to  walk  a  little  way  and  discuss  it. 


REINFORCEMENTS.  215 

Then  it  was  that  he  threw  out  hints  and  feelers  with 
the  object  of  inducing  her  to  in  some  way  give  color 
to  the  theory  that  she  was  Burlen's  sister.  It  might, 
in  the  end,  be  of  great  worldly  advantage  to  her, 
he  represented.  She  appeared  to  be  impressed,  but 
would  not  commit  herself;  and  this  was  as  far  as  he 
could  get  with  her. 

Burlen  meanwhile  awaited  Archdale's  coming  with 
impatience  and  suppressed  torture.  His  one  glance 
at  Ida's  face  had  shown  there  some  quality,  half 
hidden  and  half  disclosed,  which  tallied  with  his  own 
memory  of  his  sister.  But  wh}'  had  she  avoided  him 
and  shown  no  emotion,  if  this  resemblance  were 
more  than  accidental?  His  recollection  of  Tlryrsa 
and  the  features  of  this  enigmatical  girl  united  to 
form  a  sort  of  negative  picture ;  but  his  relations 
with  Edith  seemed  to  pour  a  flood  of  light  through 
the  negative,  and  stamp  its  outlines  on  his  brain  as 
a  burning  reality.  He  could  not  decide,  however, 
whether  this  was  the  reality  he  had  so  long  been  in 
search  of;  whether  his  sister  was  actually  at  this 
moment  so  near  him.  Archdale  could  perhaps  help 
him.  It  might  have  been  in  bad  taste  to  summon 
him  so  peremptorily,  yet  he  was  glad  that  he  had 
done  it. 

He  expected  no  return  message,  for  the  train 
would  arrive  at  noon.  Still,  feeling  sure  that  his 
old  preceptor  would  not  disappoint  him,  be  asked 
Timothy  to  borrow  the  Fernlow  chaise  for  him  and 
bring  it  into  a  lane  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  whence 


21G  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

he  could  drive  to  Powder  Brook,  —  a  signal  station 
on  the  railroad,  nearer  than  Savage's.  The  train  was 
signalled,  and  boarding  it  he  found  Archdale  in  it. 

u  Dear  me  !  "  cried  the  old  gentleman.  "  I  had  no 
idea  —  this  is  n't  Savage's,"  he  said,  hastily  survey 
ing  the  diminutive  shanty  that  served  as  a  station. 

"  No,  but  I  thought  it  would  be  more  convenient," 
the  3*oung  man  explained  nervously.  "  I've  brought 
a  chaise  for  you." 

They  dismounted  hurriedly ;  the  professor  having 
only  a  travelling-bag  with  him,  on  which  were  his 
initials,  worked  by  Edith  in  monogram.  It  con 
tained  a  copy  of  Justin  and  a  few  other  articles  of 
the  scholar's  toilet. 

As  the  train  left  them  alone  in  the  road,  Archdale, 
standing  very  straight,  his  good,  honest  face  shaded 
by  a  gathering  apprehension,  asked:  "Is  it  an}'- 
thing  very  serious,  my  dear  boy?  I  hope  no  one  is 
ill."  He  tried  to  look  as  if  prepared  for  bad  news, 
but  the  small  gray  whiskers  on  either  cheek  trembled 
a  little  after  he  had  done  speaking. 

"  No ;  all  are  well,"  said  Burlen.  "  I  must  apolo 
gize  for  sending  in  such  haste,  because  —  it  was  for 
nvyself."  He  looked  awa}',  for  tears  of  humiliation 
sprang  to  his  eyes,  which  he  must  repress. 

"Yourself?" 

"Yes.  Get  into  the  chaise,  please.  I  will  tell 
3'ou  as  we  go  along." 

They  drove  over  the  beautiful,  wild  upland  road 
without  further  words,  for  a  moment  or  two.  The 
young  man  scarcely  knew  how  to  begin.  "  I  have  n't 


REINFORCEMENTS.  217 

told  Mrs.  Savlancl  you  were  coming,"  he  said,  at 
length. 

"Oh,"  said  Archdale. 

Burlen  thought  there  was  a  frostiness  in  his  voice, 
which  struck  him  with  apprehension.  He  feared  that 
he  had  already  injured  the  cause  for  which  he  meant 
to  plead,  before  long,  with  Edith's  father.  But  what 
ever  the  result  might  be,  there  was  no  help  for  it 
now.  "It  was  very  repugnant  to  me  to  take  this 
course,"  he  said  firmly.  And  then  he  went  on  to  set 
forth  what  had  happened  between  him  and  Whitcot, 
and  what  he  feared  might  be  true  with  regard  to  the 
reputed  Ida  Hiss.  He  did  not  venture  to  look  into 
his  companion's  face  while  doing  this,  but'at  the  end 
he  made  a  short  peroration  in  excuse.  "Perhaps 
you  can't  form  an  idea  —  from  your  own  experience 
I'm  sure  }'ou  can't  —  of  how  this  trouble  drags  me 
down  and  discourages  me.  It  seems  like  a  trap  set 
by  evil  powers,  to  ruin  1113'  career.  If  this  girl  is  my 
sister  —  well,  there  is  no  choice  then  but  to  give  my 
self  up  to  caring  for  her  and  keeping  her  from  harm. 
And  if  she  is  not,  the  doubt  and  the  mystery  remain 
hanging  over  me.  At  an}*  moment  I  may  find  myself 
in  this  same  predicament  again  ;  possibly  at  a  time 
when  such  a  disgrace  would  not  fall  upon  me  alone, 
but  would  be  more  public,  and  humiliate  —  others 
—  dear  to  me." 

He  had  spoken  earnestly  but  without  vehemence, 
feeling  that  he  could  no  longer  depend  upon  sym 
pathy  in  his  listener.  From  the  despondency  which 
fell  upon  him  as  he  closed,  he  was  roused  by  a  kind 
touch  on  his  arm. 


218  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  I  will  help  you,"  said  Archdale,  with  a  voice  al 
most  feminine  in  its  tenderness. 

It  was  a  great  surprise.  The  graduate's  e}res 
glowed  with  gratitude.  "  Then  you  will  overlook/* 
he  began,  "  my  presumption  in  sending — " 

"My  dear  Robert,  you  are  in  great  need,  which 
entirely  justifies  you.  Some  way  must  be  found  of 
settling  your  affairs,  and  I  ought  to  have  given  them 
more  attention  than  I  have.  But  since  our  last  talk 
at  Marie  I  have  often  turned  the  subject  over  in  my 
mind,  and  I  have  concluded  that  you  ought  to  cut 
adrift  from  what  hampers  3*ou.  Your  own  usefulness 
and  the  good  of  others  require  it." 

Burlen  did  not  stop  to  consider  how  he  could 
reconcile  it  with  his  conscience  to  cut  adrift,  should 
the  surmise  about  Ida  prove  true.  For  the  moment 
the  delight  of  finding  Archdale  so  cordial  was  enough, 
and  seemed  to  lift  the  burden  from  his  shoulders. 

Just  then  they  reached  the  highest  point  in  their 
drive,  and  the  guardian  mountain,  which  had  not 
been  seen  on  the  lower  windings  of  the  road,  came 
into  full  view  as  if  to  welcome  them.  Nearer,  and 
divided  from  it  In7  a  gulf,  stood  the  old  farm-house 
and  barn,  amid  the  sunlit  fields,  with  huge  mulleins 
spiring  up  in  mist}'  silver-green  along  the  stone 
walls  by  the  road.  And  as  the}'  rolled  swiftly  with  a 
whir  of  wheels  towards  the  house,  a  gray  squirrel, 
having  just  reached  the  summit  of  his  ambition  on  a 
pine-branch  over  them,  emitted  a  shrill,  triumphant 
chatter  for  their  benefit. 

"I  shall  talk  with  Whitcot,  and  something  must 


REINFORCEMENTS.  219 

be  done.     We  will  confer  this  afternoon,"  said  Arch- 
dale. 

"  I  want  to  see  you  alone  again,  too,"  Burlen  said. 
"  There  is  something  else  — something  partly  con 
nected  with  this  —  I  would  like  you  to  know." 


220  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XIX. 

HOW   BURLEN   SURPRISED   ARCHDALE. 

/T*HE  professor  allowed  his  sudden  arrival  to  be 
•*•       taken  as  a  duplicate  of  his  first  unexpected 
coming,  and  Whitcot  was  careful  not  to  betray  the 
fact  that  he  had  known  of  it  in  advance. 

Archdale  drew  him  aside.  "  I  want  to  ask  3-011  a 
question  or  two,"  he  said,  leading  the  way  to  the 
clump  of  cherry-trees  encircling  that  little,  rocky  out 
door  study  whither  Burlen  had  often  resorted. 

"  Ah?  "  said  the  engineer  politely,  on  his  guard. 

"  About  this  affair  of  Burlen's  sister.  How  much 
do  you  know  about  the  girl  you  suppose  is  she  ?  " 

"  He  has  told  you,  then?  "  inquired  Whitcot,  in  his 
turn.  "  Well,  I  know  very  little  about  her."  Then 
he  regretted  the  admission,  and  became  reserved. 

"  Good,  so  far  !    I  'm  afraid,  though,  that  3-011  were 

rash  in  suggesting  the  idea  to  my  young  friend  before 

ascertaining  decisively  whether  the  person  known  as 

-Ida  Hiss,  is  it?  —  bears  her  own  name  or  not. 

What  was  your  object?" 

"I  —  I  —  well,  in  short,  I  supposed  he  would 
want  to  know." 

u  So,"  was  the  older  man's  comment.  "  So  ;  " 
given  in  a  not  very  reassuring  tone. 


HOW  BURLEN  SURPRISED  ARCHDALE.    221 

Whitcot  assumed  the  contrite.  "I'm  sorry  if  I 
made  a  mistake,"  he  said.  "  I  presume  you  knew 
already  about  Burlen's  —  ah  — "  here  his  voice  con 
veyed  a  delicate  shade  of  considerateness  for  an 
ugly  subject  —  "  Burlen's  circumstances,  since  you 
seem  quite  prepared  for  this  subject." 

''Certainly,  Robert  is  my  friend;  I  possess  his 
confidence." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  I  had  known  that,  I  could  have  com 
municated  to  you,  first,  what  I  had  found  out." 

Archdale  was  well  impressed,  but  replied  perti 
nently :  "Excuse  me,  but  I  understand  that  you 
have  not  found  out  anything." 

"Quite  right,  sir.  No;  I  should  have  said  my 
surmises."  Civil-engineer  Whitcot  began  to  suspect 
that  he  had  something  much  harder  to  do  than  me 
chanical  drawing,  before  he  could  consider  himself  a 
success. 

"As  you  sa}V  proceeded  Archdale,  "it  would 
have  been  proper  to  come  to  me  with  a  guess.  As 
it  is,  you  have  been  a  little  hasty.  However,  we 
want  to  clear  up  the  matter,  and  I  shall  expect  your 
co-operation.  Can't  3^011  arrange  for  an  interview 
between  myself  and  the  girl?" 

"1  will  try." 

"It  should  take  place  quite  privately,  you  under 
stand,  of  course." 

"  Of  course.  There 's  plenty  of  privacy  —  plent^y 
of  solitude  round  here."  Whether  from  some  chance 
recollection  of  that  night-pursuit  of  Rudyard's,  or 
from  a  sense  of  failure  closing  in  upon  him,  or  some 


222  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

general  vague  foreboding,  Whitcot  shivered  slightly 
in  making  this  reply. 

"If  you.  can  influence  her,"  said  Archdale,  "try 
to  bring  her  to  such  a  point  that  one  interview  will 
suffice." 

"  I  don't  know  of  any  influence  to  bring  to  bear, 
except  through  Timothy  Pride." 

""What,  the  farmer's  son?  What  possible  influ 
ence  can  he  have  ?  " 

"That  I  can't  tell  you,  sir.  Accidentally  it  has 
come  to  my  knowledge  that  he  has  more  or  less 
power  over  her ;  and  it  might  be  worth  while  to  try 
to  avail  ourselves  of  it." 

"  Very  well.  See  what  you  can  do,  and  then  let 
me  know,  if  3*011  please." 

And  there,  for  the  time  being,  the3T  left  the  coil 
half  unwound.  But  Whitcot  had  an  uncomfortable 
conviction,  that,  as  fast  as  one  end  was  unwound,  it 
laid  hold  of  and  tightened  around  him,  and  that  it 
might  eventually  trip  him  up. 

In  accordance  with  his  promise  that  the3T  would 
confer  together,  Archdale  strolled  down  the  glen 
with  Burlen,  in  the  afternoon,  and  told  him  how  he 
had  deputed  Whitcot  to  arrange  a  meeting  with  Ida. 
Burlen  had  something  still  more  momentous  to  im 
part.  He  had  prepared  himself  to  tell  Edith's  father 
what  was  in  his  heart,  and  to  ask  Archdale's  sanc 
tion  to  his  at  least  putting  the  decision  of  his  happi 
ness  into  Edith's  hands.  But  in  order  to  do  this  he 
felt  that  he  must  also  be  prepared  to  have  his  whole 


110 W  BURLEN  SURPRISED  ARCPIDALE.     223 

past  put  before  her.  Archclale  had  trusted  him,  and 
should  be  made  to  see  clearly  that  his  trust  had  been 
well  placed.  If  he  judged,  as  he  doubtless  would, 
that  the  preliminary  to  a  marriage  proposal  ought  to 
be  a  full  understanding  on  Edith's  part  in  regard  to 
the  conditions  of  his  life,  past  and  present,  Burlen 
made  up  his  mind  to  accept  that  decision.  To  do 
this  required  no  mean  effort,  but  he  saw  that  honor 
and  manliness  demanded  it :  a  crisis  had  come,  and 
he  could  not  permit  himself  to  shrink  from  the  duties 
it  involved. 

"I  have  thought  it  all  over,  Dr.  Archdale,"  he 
began  slowly,  "  and  I  have  chosen  this  as  the  best 
time  to  speak  of  a  —  a  subject  veiy  important  to  me. 
But  before  I  say  what  I  wish  to,  I  must  ask  you  not 
to  think  me  too  confident,  or  to  imagine  that  I  mean 
to  take  your  kindness  in  my  present  trouble  as  pledg 
ing  3-011  to  a  still  greater  kindness."  His  hands 
turned  cold  as  he  uttered  these  deliberate  words 
without  any  appearance  of  unusual  agitation. 

"  I  don't  quite  guess  what  you  are  at,"  replied 
Archdale,  n^stified  ;  "  but  I  think  you  may  rely  on 
me  not  to  misinterpret  you." 

The  good  gentleman  did  not  see  what  was  coming, 
and  his  inadequate  manner  made  Burlen's  inward 
discomposure  still  harder  to  bear.  "  Has  n't  it 
occurred  to  you,"  the  3'oung  man  asked,  fixing  his 
deep  e}'es  on  Archdale,  "  that  there  ma}' be  a  reason 
for  my  wishing  not  to  be  humiliated  before  people 
by  having  the  dishonor  of  my  family  fastened  on  me 
again  —  a  reason,  I  mean,  much  stronger  than  my 
own  personal  mortification  ?  " 


224  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Certainty,  Robert ;  a  very  much  stronger  one,  — 
that  of  the  prejudice  and  unfair  difficulty  it  might 
throw  in  the  way  of  your  career,  the  usefulness  of 
which  I  expect  to  be  great.  Yes,  I've  thought  of 
that.  I  thought  we  had  discussed  it.  Have  n't  we 
discussed  all  the  reasons,  before?" 

"Not  this  one."  It  was  a  rough  spot  where  they 
stood,  and  the  trees  around  them  sprang  up  at  un 
wonted  angles,  owing  to  the  unevenuess  of  the 
ground.  It  seemed  to  Burlen  that  these  trees, 
poised  in  such  a  peculiar  way  about  him,  had  begun 
to  stagger.  He  put  out  his  hand  to  touch  one,  and 
as  he  felt  the  contact  of  its  rough  bark,  he  said: 
"  The  reason  I  refer  to  is  —  I  love  Edith." 

Then  his  eyes  fell. 

If  the  solid  hickory  by  which  Burlen  steadied  him 
self  had  actually  given  way,  instead  of  only  seeming 
to  him  just  ready  to  do  so,  Archdale  could  hardly 
have  been  more  stunned  than  he  was,  for  a  moment, 
by  this  announcement.  He  was  unable  to  speak,  at 
first.  An  unreasoning  anger  choked  him,  —  anger 
with  himself,  with  Burlen,  and  even  with  his  sister 
Grace  for  having  foreseen  so  much.  But  this  passed, 
and  the  Archdale  of  every  day  —  the  man  of  polish, 
the  sound  theologian,  possessor  of  a  well-trained 
heart  —  recovered  himself.  "  I  wish,"  he  said  in  a 
tone  of  criticism,  but  not  harshly,  "  that  you  had  at 
least  postponed  this  statement.  Does  n't  it  strike 
you  that  there  is  a  trace  of  impropriety  in  making  it 
just  at  this  time?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  unexpected  answer.     "And  yet 


HOW  BURLEN  SURPRISED  ARCHDALE.    225 

I  chose  my  time."  Then  Burlen  seemed  to  pass 
through  a  swift  change.  He  cried  out,  in  a  tone  that 
was  new  to  his  listener:  "Impropriety?  Yes,  I 
was  born  in  an  impropriety,  brought  up  in  one  !  It's 
an  impropriety  that  I  should  be  in  the  toils  of  this 
wretched  mystery  surrounding  nry  sister.  Must  I 
unmake,  remake,  everything  before  I  come  to  you  to 
confide  this  secret,  as  I  once  did  the  black  one  that 
has  been  almost  life-long?  Perhaps  I  must  n't  allow 
myself  to  think  of  Edith :  I  have  considered  that. 
That  may  be  an  impropriety,  too,  —  the  crowning 
one."  But  in  uttering  her  name  his  tumultuous 
manner  was  checked,  and  he  manifested  a  reverence 
that  impressed  Archdale  more  than  any  impassioned 
appeal  could  have  done.  "  But  even  if  I  am  to  stop 
thinking  of  her  in  this  way,  I  must  love  her  just  the 
same.  I  wanted  to  learn  whether  you  would  deny 
me  the  right  to  hope.  You  know  my  story ;  you  are 
my  only  friend  ;  you  are  her  father.  If  you  oppose, 
I  will  submit :  she  shall  never  hear  a  syllable  from 
me  —  unnatural  though  I  might  think  it.  But  if  you 
were  to  countenance  my  suit  at  all,  it  would  have  to 
be  in  the  face  of  this  thing  that  is  still  unsettled  and 
darkens  my  path." 

"There  is  something  brave  and  right  in  what 
you  say,  Robert,"  the.  other  admitted  with  sorrow 
ful  frankness. 

"I'm  glad  you  look  at  my  motive  in  that  way. 
But  of  course  that  is  not  the  same  as  giving  me 
liberty  to  speak.  Do  you  feel  that  you  can't  do 
so?" 

15 


226  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"It  is  hard  to  answer  at  once.  Plow  long  has 
this  —  ah  —  this  idea  —  been  in  your  mind  ?  " 

"  Longer  than  I  know,  I  suppose.  But  it  is  only 
lately  that  I  recognized  it  beyond  doubt,  and  saw 
that  my  whole  future  was  wrapped  up  in  it." 

"Let  us  leave  it  for  the  present,"  Archdale  pro 
posed,  hesitating. 

' '  I  would  rather  not,  sir.  If  3*011  feel  an  opposi 
tion  to  the  thought  that  is  very  hard  to  overcome.  I 
had  better  know  it  at  once." 

"In  any  case,"  continued  Archdale,  still  tempor 
izing,  "you  could  hardly  approach  Edith  on  such  a 
theme  until  after  you  had  solved  the  problem  which 
has  taken  shape  in  the  person  of  Ida  Hiss." 

Burlcn  turned  his  eyes  away  wearily.  It  was 
a  severe  strain  upon  him  to  subject  emotions  sa 
cred,  delicate,  and  hitherto  untarnished  by  any  one's 
handling,  to  this  process  of  weights  and  measures. 
"No,"  he  said,  "I  would  not  wish  to.  Besides, 
I  want  to  lay  the  facts  of  my  life  before  her,  in 
any  case,  for  her  to  view  as  she  will,  before  I  ask 
her  —  " 

"Wait  a  moment,  Robert.  You  may  want  to  re 
consider  that.  I  appreciate  the  excellence  of  your 
purpose  in  so  planning.  But  it  may  be  caused  by 
over-loA'alty  to  me." 

"  I  think  not,  sir." 

"  Well,  on  general  grounds,  I  advise  against  it." 
Unconsciously,  Archdale  had  already,  drawn  on  by 
the  j'ounger  man's  sturdy  sincertty,  thrown  himself 
into  his  position,  and  was  planning  what  course  would 


HOW  BURLEN  SURPRISED  ARCIIDALE.    227 

be  best  for  him  in  presenting  his  suit.  "  There  is  no 
real  need  of  3*our  embarrassing  yourself  in  that  way. 
If  it  should  really  be  the  case  that  Edith "  —  he 
pulled  up  suddenly,  seeing  how  far  he  had  gone,  but 
gallantly  resumed  —  "that  Edith  cared  for  you,  the 
narration  of  past  events  would  come  more  naturally 
after  some  assurance  of  that  fact,  than  before." 

A  look  of  gladness  brightened  in  Burlen's  face. 

"Perhaps  3*011  are  right,"  he  answered.  "But 
you  are  speaking  almost  as  if  you  were  reconciled 
to  what  I  wish." 

Archdale  did  what,  ten  minutes  earlier,  he  would 
have  thought  impossible:  he  smiled.  "I  believe  I 
am,"  he  said  candidly.  "I  hardly  knew  it;  but 
somehow  3*ou  have  won  me  over,  I  think.  It  was 
nothing  in  you,  Robert,  that  made  me  hesitate  at 
first.  You  know  that.  After  all,  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  stand  between  two  j'oung  lives,  if  they  grow 
naturally  together." 

"I  can't  tell  3*011  how  much  3*our  goodness  does 
for  me,"  the  candidate  responded,  lifted  into  a  calm 
ecstasy  by  this  favorable  result. 

"You  accept  my  advice,  then?"  the  professor 
queried,  punctiliously.  "  You  see  that  it  is  better  to 
leave  reminiscences  until  afterward  ?  " 

"  Let  me  think  a  moment,"  said  Burlen. 

Former^-  he  had  been  the  one  to  request  a  post 
ponement  ;  now  it  was  Archdale  who  counselled  it. 
His  instinct  had  been  to  let  Edith  know  everything, 
before  asking  her  to  be  his  wife  ;  but  possibly  that 
was  a  crude  idea,  since  it  did  not  recommend  itself 


228  IX    THE  DISTANCE. 

to  Archdale.  It  might  not  be  at  all  fitting  to  preface 
his  proposal  with  a  long  and  painful  story.  Then, 
there  were  other  considerations.  Our  relations  in 
life  seem,  at  times,  to  be  mcrety  groupings,  which 
endure  because  they  are  effective  and  convenient,  or 
unavoidable  like  the  chain-gang  in  prisons,  inevit 
able  to  sufferers  under  a  common  doom  of  disap 
pointment.  Only  at  times,  I  say,  do  they  strike  us 
in  this  wa}'.  But  it  is  undeniable  that  man}'  of  our 
dearest  and  apparently  firmest  ties  may  be  dissolved, 
at  the  least  seriously  modified,  if  one  of  the  parties 
to  them  shall  be  presented  to  the  other  in  a  suddenly 
altered  light ;  not  necessarily  a  light  due  to  a  fatal 
misdeed,  but  simply  some  difference  of  opinion,  some 
flaw  of  temper,  some  episode  of  the  past  unexpect 
edly  made  known  and  not  fully  understood.  Such  a 
light,  falling  unexpectedly,  often  changes  a  person's 
whole  aspect  in  the  e}~es  of  another,  and  causes 
grave  consequences,  though  the  person  in  question 
may  not  have  been  seriously  at  fault  nor  even  blame 
worthy  at  all.  Regarded  in  this  way,  our  mundane 
unions  of  friendship,  love,  and  society  become  like 
experiments  in  chiaroscuro,  constantly  thrown  aside 
or  neglected  in  the  hope  that  something  more  nearly 
perfect  will  be  arrived  at.  If  this  can  be  so  in 
unions  already  formed,  the  risk  is  still  greater  when 
a  man  appears  suddenty  before  the  woman  to  whom 
he  is  about  to  declare  his  love,  in  a  surrounding  ot 
rough  and  disenchanting  fact  wholly  different  from 
what  slie  has  grown  used  to  associating  with  him. 
Something  of  all  this  Burlen  had  observed  during 


HOW  BURLEN  SURPRISED  ARCHDALE.     229 

his  progress  through  the  world,  and  now  reviewed, 
Edith  was  to  him  the  fulfilment,  in  tangible  form, 
of  that  higher  existence  to  which  he  had  dedicated 
himself;  towards  which  he  had  slowly  striven  over 
volcanic  slopes  of  fire  and  tumult  and  destructive 
upheaval.  He  had  risen  toilsomely,  by  the  force  of 
an  aspiration  and  of  faculties  which  God  had  given 
him,  out  of  squalid  depths  up  to  her  joyous  and  more 
blessed  plane.  Would  it  not  be  more  just,  therefore, 
to  win  his  way  further  even  as  he  had  begun  ? 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  great  doubt,"  observed  Arch- 
dale,  who  had  watched  the  strong,  brown,  sensitive 
face  during  that  pause  of  absent  reverj7. 

"  No  ;  I  am  in  doubt  no  longer.  It  must  be  best 
as  3"ou  say.  I  think  I  will  wait  about  telling  her,  — 
unless,  of  course,  this  girl  is  really  Thyrsa."  And 
again,  for  an  instant,  Burlen's  expression  became 
one  of  anxious  pain. 

The  tone  of  life  at  the  farm  was  insensibly  deep 
ening.  All  those  who  sat  down  to  tea  that  evening 
in  the  homely  old  dining-room,  which  the  3*oung  peo 
ple  had  nicknamed  Gobble  Hall,  were  occupied  with 
hopes  and  sentiments,  fears,  anxieties,  and  weighty 
life-plans,  excepting  Mrs.  Savland.  Yet  there  was 
no  lack  of  mirth.  The  conversation  was  light  and 
amusing.  There  was  youth  enough  in  the  party  to 
overcome  all  shadows  of  care  and  the  slumbering 
tides  of  solemn  passion.  Ravling,  unlike  Burlen, 
had  the  art  of  separating  himself  from  his  own 
affairs,  or  from  what  was  going  on  around  him,  — 


230  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

even  though  it  might  be  cutting  him  to  the  quick,  — 
so  far  as  to  regard  all  that  happened  as  part  of 
a  strange  and  entertaining,  albeit  an  occasionally 
tragic,  show.  This  made  him  a  good  story-teller. 
Odd  experiences  had  befallen  him,  and  he  wrought 
them  all  into  a  continuous  drama  full  of  surprises, 
of  wit  and  humor,  sometimes  of  simple  beaut}'  and 
deep  reflection,  from  which  he  drew  at  will  to  please 
his  friends.  Nearly  every  one  liked  him,  in  conse 
quence  ;  and  on  this  particular  evening  he  appeared 
so  well  that  an  impartial  authority  might  have  pro 
nounced  him  a  dangerous  rival  to  Burlcn.  I  suspect 
that  Edith  really  had  some  momentaiy  compunctions 
for  her  discouraging  treatment  of  him. 

Burlen,  however,  could  not  repress  his  hopefulness. 
He  had  gained  so  much  in  this  one  day,  that  it 
seemed  impossible  he  should  not  continue  and  reach 
the  acme  of  his  desires.  Before  the  moon  rose,  they 
were  all  called  out  to  look  at  a  camp-fire  burning 
on  Monadnoc,  —  a  spectacle  which  to  them  was  an 
important  event.  The  scene  was  glorious,  and  the 
whole  party  were  hushed  by  it.  Great  masses  of 
rising  and  falling  ground  rolled  themselves  towards 
Monadnoc  in  a  gloom  of  woods,  decp-hued  as  a  star 
less  sky  ;  but  the  real  heavens  hung  blue-black  above 
this  expanse,  full  of  pale  glittering  lights.  Dusk  on 
dusk,  the  mountain  heaped  its  giant  limbs  high 
against  the  stars  ;  and  half  way  up  its  bold  acclivity 
the  small  spot  of  the  camp-fire  shone  like  a  fierce  e}*e 
looking  to  the  southward,  so  that  Monadnoc  seemed 
even  more  than  by  daylight  a  potent,  living  presence. 


HOW  BURLEN  SURPRISED  ARCIIDALE.    231 

There  was  a  vague  murmur  in  the  air  of  little  brooks 
that  one  might  fancy  had  lost  their  way  in  the  dark 
ness  and  were  whispering  together  how  they  should 
get  home.  As  Burlen  stood  there,  near  Edith,  a 
song-sparrow  disturbed  in  her  rest  uttered  from  her 
nest,  in  the  ink-black  trees  by  the  road,  a  sudden, 
soft  twitter,  lazy  and  remote  as  a  sound  in  dreams. 
In  Burlen  there  awoke  a  gladness  that  responded 
with  good  accord  to  that  sweet  note,  as  he  recalled 
how  he  had  now  put  into  articulate  words  the  pas 
sion  that  possessed  him.  But  when  he  should  speak 
to  Edith,  it  would  no  longer  be  like  a  sound  in  a 
dream. 


232  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XX. 

A   MEETING    IN   THE    DESERT. 


E  more  that  Whitcot  lost  confidence  in  the 
plausibility  of  entangling  Burlen  in  ties  of 
relationship  with  a  girl  who  assuredly  could  not  be 
considered  a  desirable  sister-in-law,  the  more  reso 
lute  he  became  in  effecting  some  embarrassment 
which  should  delay  his  rival's  progress  with  Edith. 

There  were  elements  in  the  young  engineer,  differ 
ent  though  his  breeding  was  from  that  of  the  strange 
child  of  night  who  had  flitted  by  a  seeming  acci 
dent  into  his  life,  which  responded  involuntarily  to 
her  unfettered,  dangerous  nature.  Argue  as  3*ou 
will  from  the  strength  of  refining  association,  these 
tendencies  of  downward  affinity  will  be  found  in 
places  where,  until  one  has  learned  to  search  deeper 
than  all  prejudice  or  theory,  they  seem  least  likely 
to  occur.  They  perhaps  denote  in  the  cultivated 
nature  an  unconscious  remembrance  of  something 
lower,  from  which  it  has  risen  by  gradual  stages, 
through  man}'  generations. 

In  Ida  Hiss,  Whitcot  had  encountered  a  living  type 
of  the  lower  sort,  still  undeveloped  ;  and  although 
there  had  been  something  repellent  in  his  first  chance 
association  with  her,  she  also  exercised  a  species  of 
uncanny  fascination  over  him.  Now  that  he  had 


A   MEETING   IN   THE  DESERT.        233 

been  drawn  into  fixing  upon  her  as  an  instrument 
in  a  plot  to  forward  his  own  ends,  he  felt  the  force 
of  this  more  controlling!}",  notwithstanding  that  he 
still  failed  to  take  due  account  of  it.  Being  com 
missioned  by  Archdale  to  deal  further  with  her,  he 
was  obliged  to  see  her  again.  The  negotiation  did 
not  proceed  altogether  satisfactorily.  Arguments 
had  to  be  used.  He  cajoled,  he  flattered  her.  He 
tried  to  persuade  her  that  she  would  gain  in  Timo 
thy's  regard  if  she  could  rise,  even  for  a  short  time, 
to  the  position  of  Burlen's  sister.  And  in  doing  all 
this  he  dropped  into  a  familiar  relation,  tinged  with 
a  tawdry  affectation  of  gallantry,  not  very  creditable 
and  still  less  prudent,  since  it  exposed  him  to  Rud- 
yard's  suspicion  and  dislike. 

She  agreed  to  come  to  a  rendezvous  with  Arch- 
dale  and  Burlen  at  a  sheltered  spot  just  above  the 
desert ;  but  he  could  get  from  her  no  intimation  as 
to  what  she  would  do  when  there.  Possibly  she 
herself  did  not  know.  Even  this  much  was  accom 
plished  only  by  the  intervention  of  Timothy  Pride. 
When  the  assistance  of  that  }"oung  man  was  asked, 
he  replied  :  "  You  want  to  find  out  suthin'  from  Id}"? 
Well,  I  tell  3*011,  Mr.  Whitcot,  it  ain't  no  go.  She  's 
as  sharp  as  the  little  end  o'  nothin' !  " 

Whitcot  had  not  confided  to  him  what  they  wished 
to  find  out ;  but  the  young  fellow  none  the  less  used 
his  best  endeavor  to  contrive  the  meeting.  These 
preliminaries  occupied  two  days,  but  at  last  the 
appointed  time  drew  near. 

The  engineer  told  the  two  persons  most  interested 


234  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

how  the  interview  was  to  take  place ;  and  when  the 
hour  came,   Archdale    and  Burlen  separately  made 
their  escape  unobserved  from  the  house  and  chose 
slightly  circuitous  routes  to  the  place  that  had  been 
named.     The  engineer  had  to  wait  for  Timothy,  who 
was  bringing  up  to  the  barn  some  saplings  which  his 
father  and  he  had  been   trimming  for  wagon-poles. 
Unluckily   Ann    Fernlow    had    just   come   with    her 
mother  to  see  Mrs.  Pride,  and  Timothy  — who  had 
been  more  devoted  to  the  bashful  little  maiden  since 
her  success  at  the  levee— gave  indications  of  wish 
ing  to  remain  near  her.     He  drove  slowly  np  with 
his    loc.d   of    wagon-poles,    singing   his    accustomed 
song,   which  had  the  merit  of  containing  only  two 
lines  ;  so  that  by  varying  the  number  of  repetitions 
it  could  be  lengthened  or  diminished    at  will,   and 
made  to  fit  exactly  the  extent  of  any  drive,  whether 
long  or  short. 

"I'd  ra — ther  be  with  Ro-sa-bel, 
A-swing— ing  in  —  the  lane  !  " 

he  roared,  with  all  the  vigor  of  his  robustly  insensi 
ble  lungs.  Then,  after  vague  intermediate  humming, 
he  would  reiterate  his  desire  to  be  with  Rosabel. 

"  I  don't  doubt  you  'd  rather  be,"  growled  Whitcot, 
under  his  breath,  standing  near  the  gate;  "  but  we 
can't  allow  it,  just  at  present." 

The  wagon  was  unloaded,  and  then  Timothy  de 
liberately  went  to  join  his  Rosabel,  who,  under  the 
guise  of  Ann  Fernlow,  was  standing  by  the  kitchen 
door  with  the  two  elder  women.  "Come,  Timo- 


A   MEETING  IN   THE  DESERT.        235 

thy!"  Whitcot  hailed  him.  "I'm  ready  to  go  out 
with  you  now  and  set  those  traps  in  the  woods." 
This  was  to  be  their  ostensible  errand. 

"  All  right.  I  want  to  talk  to  Ann  and  her  mother 
a  spell,  first,"  returned  the  youth,  doggedly. 

"  Hurry  up,  then!" 

But  it  was  not  an  eas}T  matter  to  get  him  away 
from  the  shy  little  maiden.  Finally  Whitcot  started 
off  slowly  into  the  road,  whistling  with  a  fierce  facil 
ity  that  conveyed  in  the  strongest  terms  his  growing 
impatience.  This  indirect  appeal  moved  Timothy, 
and  he  began  to  follow,  but  only  to  turn  back  once 
more. 

"Oh,  Ann  !  "  he  bawled,  with  affectionate  energy. 
"I  had  suthin'  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you,  an'  I  most 
forgot  it." 

Ann  twisted  the  forefinger  of  her  left  hand  with 
her  timid  little  right  one,  by  way  of  intimating  that 
she  was  all  attention,  and  glanced  out  at  him  from 
under  her  bent  hat. 

"  They  want  me,"  said  Timothy,  jerking  his  head 
descriptively  towards  that  part  of  the  house  occupied 
by  the  summer-boarders,  "  to  drive  one  o'  the  teams 
to  Monadnoc  when  they  go.  There  '11  be  room  on 
it  for  you." 

Ann  looked  quickly  at  her  mother,  who  nodded. 

"  What  say?     Will  you  go?  "  demanded  Timothy. 

"Yes,  long  as  mother  saj's  I  ma}',"  the  girl  an 
swered,  —  inaccurately,  since  her  mother  had  not 
uttered  a  syllable.  But  she  was  blushing  with  grati 
fication,  and  that  satisfied  her  suitor. 


236  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  All  right.  I  '11  tell  you,  when  we  're  goin',"  he 
remarked,  with  an  assumed  air  of  regarding  it  strictly 
as  a  business  matter,  and  having  no  sentimental 
interest  in  it  whatever.  But  he  really  found  in  the 
little  attention  he  had  just  offered  a  balm  to  ease  his 
conscience  for  the  deception  he  was  guilty  of  in  go 
ing  to  see  Ida  Hiss  once  more.  His  meetings  with 
Ida  hitherto  had  been  actuated  on  his  part  solely 
by  sedate  curiosity,  and  rendered  mildly  agreeable  Ly 
the  knowledge  that  she  had  what  seemed  an  extrav 
agant  liking  for  him.  At  present  he  was  going  to 
see  her  merely  to  oblige  Mr.  Whitcot,  and  was  firmly 
resolved  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her. 

Burlen  having  arrived  first  at  the  trysting-place 
had  seated  himself  on  the  thick,  short  grass  under 
the  spreading  boughs  of  a  linden,  the  other  half  of 
which  overhung  the  sand.  The  tree  was  still  full 
of  life  and  beauty,  although  the  desert  had  begun  its 
fatal  assault  by  banking  sand  up  around  the  bole. 
On  the  grass  where  the  young  candidate  sat  were 
scattered  scores  of  seed-sacks  from  the  branches 
above,  each  one  a  disk-shape  provided  with  a  small 
green  wing  on  one  side,  by  means  of  which  the  wind 
could  waft  it  away  to  some  final  lodgment,  far  from 
any  one  's  ken,  where  it  would  either  take  root  or 
wither  fruitlessly  into  dust.  Little  emblems  of  fate 
they  seemed,  to  Burlen  ;  and  as  he  waited  here  for 
the  interview  fraught  with  so  many  possible  conse 
quences,  the  sharp  contrast  of  the  hot  sand-acres  on 
one  side  of  him  with  the  cool  and  shadowed  green 
ness  on  the  other  became  typical  of  the  junction  be- 


A  MEETING  IN  THE  DESERT.         237 

tween  opposing  forces  in  his  career,  which  was  just  now 
taking  place.  From  his  revery  over  these  tilings  he 
was  roused  by  Archdale's  arrival ;  and  they  were  soon 
afterward  joined  by  Whitcot  and  his  reluctant  agent. 

"  Where  can  the  young  woman  be?"  queried  the 
professor,  looking  about. 

"I  can't  imagine,"  said  Whitcot,  nervous  with  so 
much  delay.  "  It 's  considerably  past  the  time  when 
she  ought  to  have  got  here." 

While  they  were  staring  in  all  directions  for  some 
sign  of  her  approach,  they  heard  a  low,  contralto-toned 
laugh,  which  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  sand-heaps 
close  by.  They  turned  in  astonishment,  and  there 
was  Ida  emerging  from  a  hollow  between  two  of  the 
low  crests  of  the  desert-tract,  where  she  had  crouched 
in  effectual  concealment.  She  wore  no  hat,  even  in 
the  warm  sunlight  that  had  been  beating  on  her  there. 
With  her  shining  black  hair,  her  rich,  deep  complex 
ion,  and  clear  red  lips  exposed  to  the  full  after 
noon  glow,  —  her  vivid,  careless  vitality  contrasting 
with  the  haunting  misery  that  never  was  absent  from 
her  expression,  —  she  rose  upon  Archdale  and  Burlen 
like  an  embodiment  of  the  desolation  in  which  she 
stood  at  that  instant ;  a  life  that  had  sprung  all  at 
once  out  of  lifeless  matter  ;  a  creature  having  human 
form  and  human  traits,  but  not  yet  quite  freed  from 
the  encumbering  weight  of  that  lower  and  more 
savage  nature  from  which  she  had  risen. 

"I've  seen  every  one  of  you  come,"  she  said, 
without  waiting  for  any  question.  "1  was  here  all 
the  time."  She  stepped  out  on  to  the  grass  and 


238  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

faced  the  farmer-lad.  "  Timothy  Pride,  what  do  you 
want  here?" 

"Any  harm  in  my  wantin' to  see  you?"  he  re 
torted,  with  the  comfortable  sulkincss  of  indifference. 
'  You  allus  pretended  you  was  sot  on  me,  before." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  you  with  these  men,"  she 
said,  glancing  contemptuously  at  the  others.  "  You 
didn't  say  you  was  going  to  be  here.  You  asked 
me  to  come  and  talk  to  'em,  and  I  came  because  you 
asked." 

"Well,  I  did  it  a-puppuss,"  Timothy  declared, 
becoming  belligerent.  «  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what 
I  asked  you  so  many  times  a'ready,  —  just  where 
you  come  from  and  who  your  folks  be.  They  want 
to  know,  and  so  do  I ;  and  that 's  why  we  come  to 
gether.  See  ?  " 

The  strange  girl  turned  imperiously  to  Archdale. 
^"Send  him  away!"  she  commanded,  pointing  at 
Timothy.  She  had  not  waited  for  any  introduction 
to  the  venerable  and  scandalized  professor. 

He,  however,  was  resolved  to  be  conciliatory  at 
all  cost.  Persuading  the  farmer's  son  to  walk  away 
out  of  hearing,  and  contemplate  a  group  of  white 
birches  in  the  near  distance,  he  then,  with  some 
sternness,  addressed  Ida.  M  Now  let  us  be  reason 
able,  if  you  please,"  he  began.  After  this  he  set  the 
case  before  her  in  courteous  phrases,  from  his  own 
point  of  view.  Mr.  Burlcn  had  a  sister  who  had  left 
her  home,  and  so  on  ;  rumors  had  arisen  ;  greatly 
obliged  if  she  would  enlighten  them  ;  and  so  on,  and 
so  on.  "  In  fact  it  is  your  duty,"  he  wound  up,  "  if 


A    MEETING   IN    THE   DESERT.         239 

you  are  not  this  lost  sister,  or  have  no  knowledge  of 
her,  to  state  as  much  at  once  and  put  an  end  to  all 
doubt." 

His  eminently  proper  appeal  made  no  discernible 
impression.  "  I  sha'n't  tell  you  anything  about  my 
self,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  that  I'm  anybody's 
sister.  Have  n't  you  heard  my  name?  Ida  Hiss  is 
what  folks  call  me,  round  here.  If  you  've  all  a 
mind  to  tell  me  something  about  your  families,  per 
haps  I  '11  tell  you  about  mine.  But  I  won't  promise. 
Suppose  we  all  sit  down  and  tell  stories,"  she  sug 
gested,  with  an  air  of  jo}*less  amusement.  Archdule 
turned  away  from  her  in  despair,  shocked  and  dis 
concerted.  He  had  already  made  up  his  mind  that 
she  had  no  claim  on  his  former  pupil,  whoever  she 
might  be.  Then  she  turned  to  Burlen,  with  a  half 
sinister  smile.  "Do  I  look  like  your  sister?"  she 
asked  him.  "  If  you  want  to  treat  me  like  a  sister 
and  be  nice  to  me,  3-011  can.  It  would  be  real  fun  !  " 

It  had  been  a  part  of  Archdale's  prescribed  pol 
icy  that  Burlen  should  make  no  strenuous  appeal  to 
her ;  that  he  should  notice  her,  indeed,  as  little  as 
possible,  and  leave  her  to  take  her  own  course.  But 
this  partly  insolent,  partty  coquettish  sally  of  hers, 
together  with  her  piercing  and  inscrutable  gaze, 
bewildered  the  young  man.  He  could  not  actually 
believe  her  to  be  his  sister ;  but  the  mixed  current 
of  pity,  longing,  and  terror  that  fretted  against  his 
heart  was  hard  to  resist. 

u  I  shall  never  treat  }'ou  as  a  sister,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  profoundly  sad,  which  seemed  to  echo  itself  in 


240  -ftV   THE  DISTANCE. 

a  tremulous  ringing  tone,  though  he  uttered  each 
word  distinctly,  "  until  I  find  that  it  is  right  to  do 
so.  If  you  proved  yourself  my  sister,  no  one  should 
be  to  you  what  I  would." 

He  looked  directly  into  her  eyes  while  speaking, 
and  for  a  moment  afterwards.  She  returned  his 
look  ;  but  it  was  a  mutual  gaze  which  neither  would 
have  been  anxious,  just  then,  to  repeat.  Who  can 
tell  what  dark  abyss  he  explored,  in  those  few  sec 
onds,  or  what  terrifying  height  of  spirituality  she 
discerned  in  him  ?  There  was  a  still  and  awful  pas 
sion  in  their  discovery  of  the  distance  between  them  ; 
perhaps  as  when  a  star  looks  down  into  some  black 
tarn  of  earth,  millions  of  miles  below,  and  the  dark 
waters,  looking  up,  tremblingly  reflect  the  star. 

She  made  no  immediate  answer,  and  Buiien  turned 
his  gaze  away  and  receded  a  few  steps,  as  if  that  try 
ing  scrutiny  had  exhausted  him. 

But  the  girl  had  been  shaken,  influenced.  For  a 
second  or  two  a  light  shone  in  her  eyes  which  might 
have  betokened  some  important  resolution.  She 
glanced  at  Timothy,  who  stood  a  few  rods  away  with 
his  back  turned,  and  then  at  Burlen,  as  if  she  were 
weighing  the  consideration  that  Whitcot  had  lately 
suggested  to  her.  So  he  at  least  fancied,  leaning 
with  folded  arms  against  the  linden-trunk  and  ob 
serving  her. 

"  What  would  you  do  if  I  really  was  your  sister?" 
she  inquired  of  the  young  theologian,  after  a  pause. 
"  Would  3'ou  think  as  much  of  me  as  }'ou  do  of  those 
ladies  up  at  the  farm,  mebbe?  Would  I  have  dresses 


A   MEETING   IN  THE  DESERT.         241 

like  them?  How  do  you  suppose  they  would  like  it? 
How  do  you  suppose  they  would  treat  me?"  But 
by  the  time  she  finished  she  had  broken  into  a  quiet 
laugh  of  derision,  which  she  seemed  to  direct  against 
herself  as  well  as  against  other  people  in  general, 
and  the  ladies  referred  to  in  particular. 

Burlen  looked  up  again.  The  other  two  men  in 
stinctively  withdrew  a  few  paces. 

"Are  3*011  Thyrsa?"  demanded  the  unfortunate 
young  man,  with  agonized  entreaty.  "If  you  are, 
tell  me  some  little  thing  that  will  show  it !  You 
must  n't  be  afraid.  You  don't  know  how  I  searched 
for  my  sister,  for  }*ears.  I  don't  believe  }'ou  are  she, 
or  else  you  could  n't  see  me  in  such  suspense  without 
telling  me  positively.  Do  you  remember  the  little 
pool  where  we  used  to  play,  and  where  my  father 
used  to  wet  the  wheels  sometimes,  when  he  was  put 
ting  new  iron  around  them  ?  It  was  near  the  shop, 
just  along  the  road.  O  Th}*rsa !  I  remember  I 
ran  after  her,  that  very  day  when  she  left  us  for  the 
last  time,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  be  back  soon !  " 
Tears  forced  themselves  into  Burlen's  eyes.  The 
girl  bent  her  face  aside,  so  that  he  could  not  see  it, 
—  whether  because  she  was  really  moved  or  only 
wearied  with  the  scene,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
tell.  "Wait!"  he  cried.  "Did  you  ever  have  a 
breast-pin  made  of  your  mother's  hair,  —  a  small  pin 
made  like  a  shield  ? "  He  paused  an  instant :  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  heard  a  suppressed  sob  from 
the  girl  before  him.  But  she  made  no  answer. 
"  Very  well,"  he  suddenly  resumed,  with  forced  com- 
16 


242  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

posure.  "I  see.  If  3*011  were  Thyrsa,  I'm  sure 
3'ou  would  sa}T  something  when  I  reminded  3*ou  of 
mother." 

Ida  confronted  him  again,  half  fiercely,  with  no 
trace  of  emotion  in  her  face.  "  You  wouldn't  want 
to  have  3*0111'  sister  back,  even  if  you  did  find  her !  " 
she  exclaimed,  passionately.  "I  know  very  well 
how  it  would  be.  You  'd  despise  her.  Why  do 
3*ou  go  on,  this  way?  Haven't  3*011  had  enough  of 
talking  to  me?  Let's  stop  this." 

Burlen  drew  back,  despairing,  3*et  with  a  sense  of 
relief.  Archdale,  growing  impatient,  returned  to 
the  attack  and  made  one  more  effort ;  but  Ida  only 
smiled  disdainfully  at  him,  and  vouchsafed  no  reply. 
Then  Whitcot,  seeing  that  no  progress  was  being 
made,  brought  Timothy  forward  again. 

The  girl  warned  him  off,  as  he  approached.  Then, 
on  his  advancing,  she  began  to  go  further  awa3*,  and 
mounted  the  low  sancty  ridge  behind  her.  He  fol 
lowed,  alone,  leaving  the  rest  in  the  background. 
"  You've  got  to  settle  this  to  suit  'em,"  he  asserted, 
in  matter-of-fact  tones,  "  before  you  go  away.  Else 
I  sha'n't  marry  you,  nor  have  nothin'  more  to  do  with 
you." 

She  frowned  and  shook  her  finger  at  him.  ' '  You  're 
a  wicked  little  boy,  Timothy,"  she  said.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?  What  is  it  to  you  ?  " 

"I  don'  know 's  I  sh'd  have  anythin'  more  to  do 
with  you  any  way,"  he  replied.  "  But  then  I  prom 
ised  that  managing  engineer,  or  whatever  he  is,  that 
I  'd  tell  ye  this.  So  there  !  " 


A   MEETING  IN   THE  DESERT.         243 

"  That  Whitcot?  What  a  fool  he  is  !  Oh,  I  re 
member  well  enough,"  she  continued,  addressing  the 
engineer,  though  he  was  beyond  reach  of  her  voice, 
"  how  you  asked  me,  that  first  time  I  saw  you, 
whether  I  could  be  afraid  of  you.  And  so  you  thought 
I  would,  did  you?  —  Listen,  Timothy  :  he  '11  find  out 
his  mistake.  There's  some  one  else  he  'd  better  be 
afraid  of!  Timothy,  you  did  wrong  to  make  me 
come  up  here  ;  and  now  I've  done  it  for  you,  3-011  're 
cruel  and  mean,  and  don't  treat  me  well.  You  like 
that  little  'fraid-cat,  Ann  Fernlow,  better  than  you 
do  me.  Well,  go  along  to  her,  then."  The  farmer's 
son  appeared  quite  willing  to  obey  this  injunction  ; 
but  she  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve  as  he  began  to  move 
away  from  her.  "You  won't  forget  me  for  always, 
will  you,  Timothy?"  she  asked,  in  sudden  earnest, 
and  betraying  a  kind  of  humility. 

He  shook  her  hand  off.  "Don't  touch  me!"  he 
said,  with  plain,  prosaic  testiness. 

She  recoiled  as  if  more  hurt  than  she  would  like  to 
admit.  Then,  all  at  once,  waving  her  hand  to  the 
three  who  stood  further  off  under  the  linden  boughs  : 
"  Good-  by,  folks!"  she  cried.  "I'm  sorry  you 
did  n't  bring  those  ladies  to  see  me,  too." 

Timothy  came  back  to  them,  indolently  observing : 
"You  might's  well  whistle  psalm-tunes  to  a  dead 
horse  as  talk  to  her!  "  (In  strict  accuracy,  what  he 
said  sounded  like  "  Sam  tunes.") 

Archdale  was  moving  forward  to  enter  an  appeal 
against  this  tantalizing  close  of  the  interview  which 
was  to  have  been  so  conclusive,  when  he  was  arrested 


244  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

by  the  sound  of  several  people  coming  towards  them 
through  the  adjacent  wood,  and  recognized  the  voices 
of  Edith  and  Viola  in  conversation  with  Ravling.  In 
another  instant  these  new  arrivals  —  carrying  bows, 
quivers,  and  a  target  —  stepped  out  into  the  grass}' 
opening  near  the  linden,  and  halted  in  amazement  at 
the  disconnected  and  incongruous  group  which  they 
beheld  there. 

"  Schucky  !  "  exclaimed  Timothy,  and  immediately 
made  good  his  retreat  over  the  bank  of  the  desert. 

"How  strange  you  all  seem,  papa!"  said  Edith, 
coming  nearer.  "  Who  is  that  woman  there?" 

"  Some  one  Timothy  has  been  talking  with,"  said 
her  father,  making  an  effort  to  appear  perfectly  col 
lected. 

"  But  why  did  he  run  away  so?  He  told  us  }-ou 
were  all  going  to  be  here,  and  so  we  brought  our 
archery.  But  it  took  us  so  long  to  find  it !  " 

"Oh,  he  told  3-011,  did  he?"  Whitcot  asked,  with 
innocent  surprise.  "  Well,  let's  begin." 

"Are  you  all  tired  out  with  waiting?"  Viola  in 
quired,  in  a  singing  tone  and  with  a  brilliant  smile, 
as  if  to  indicate  that  she  never  became  tired. 

"  How  that  woman  watches  us !  "  Edith  whispered 
to  her  father,  imeasity. 

"  We  shall  have  to  make  a  target  of  her,"  Ravling 
declared  jocosely,  overhearing  this. 

But  Ida,  having  scanned  them  all  to  her  satisfac 
tion,  was  now  ready  to  go.  Without  further  demon 
stration,  she  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  sand, 
ascended  a  little  knoll  at  the  end  of  it,  where  some 


A   MEETING  IN  THE  DESERT.        245 

tall  white  birches  grew  in  an  airy  clump  together,  and 
stood  there,  briefly  looking  back  at  the  rest,  as  if 
she  were  a  sorceress  who  was  satisfied  with  casting 
a  spell  over  them  from  a  distance.  Then  she  van 
ished. 

Laughing  at  her  singular  behavior,  Ravling  set  up 
the  target,  and  the  archery  practice  began ;  Burlen 
and  the  professor  taking  no  share  in  it.  In  a  few 
moments  there  came  floating  up  from  the  glen  below 
the  desert  a  sturdy  voice,  keyed  to  the  familiar 

strain :  — 

"  I  'd  rather  be  with  Ro-sa  bel." 

This  ditty  was  repeated  a  few  times,  and  then  died 
awa}^.  After  a  while,  the}'  heard  the  same  voice 
calling  to  the  cattle:  "Bossy,  bossy,  bossy,  bossy! 
Coo,  coo,  coo!"  And  again,  further  off:  "Bossy 
—  bossy  —  boss}' !  "  It  formed  a  grotesque  closing 
strain  to  the  unique  parley  which  had  just  taken 
place,  3ret  it  resounded  in  the  vast  silence  of  declin 
ing  afternoon,  and  in  this  lonely  spot,  with  a  mourn- 
fulness  that  struck  Burlen.  To  him  it  seemed  as  if 
everything,  even  the  most  prosaic  occurrence,  took 
on  a  shade  of  the  tragic  among  these  solemn  hills. 

When  the  party  got  ready  to  go,  he  contrived  to 
pass  near  enough  to  Whitcot  for  a  moment  to  mutter 
in  his  ear,  "  If  Timothy  told  the  others  we  were  going 
to  be  here,  there  is  only  one  person  who  could  have 
given  him  the  hint." 

The  engineer  did  not  flinch  nor  change  expression. 
But  his  very  self-possession  condemned  him,  in  Bur 
len' s  opinion.  It  seemed  altogether  probable  that  he 


246  IN  THE  DISTANCE, 

had  intended  to  bring  about  a  theatrical  surprise, 
which,  had  Ida  acknowledged  herself  the  theologi 
an's  sister,  would  have  led  to  an  abrupt  disclosure 
before  the  entire  assemblage  of  friends. 

"Well,  Robert,"  said  Archdale,  when  they  were 
alone,  "  it  seems  to  have  come  to  nothing.  What  is- 
your  opinion  about  the  girl  ? " 

"  It  seems  less  likely  to  me  now,  than  at  any  time 
since  the  notion  was  broached,  that  she  can  be 
Tlryrsa.  At  least,  I  shall  repudiate  it  entirely  from 
now  on  until  she  chooses  to  bring  positive  proof." 

"Quite  right!"  nodded  the  professor,  cheerfully. 
"  I  think  you  may  consider  yourself  free." 

And  he  knew  how  much  that  phrase  meant  to 
Buiien. 


THE   CROWN  OF  MONADNOC.          247 


XXL 

THE   CROWN   OF  MOXADNOC. 

ALIGHT  rain  set  in  the  next  day  after  the  scene 
which  has  just  been  described,  and  caused  the 
inmates  of  Pride's  to  postpone  for  another  twenty- 
four  hours  the  drive  to  Monadnoc  and  the  ascent  to 
its  summit,  which  they  had  been  planning. 

It  was  now  late  in  August,  and  the  half-circle  of 
peaks  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  which  marked  the 
shading  of  one  season  into  another  by  the  slow 
changes  of  their  hues,  had  grown  yellow  and  brown 
with  sun-burnt  pastures  and  ripening  harvests  on 
their  lower  slopes.  The  green  of  the  woods,  too, 
began  to  dim  and  to  3'ield,  here  and  there,  to  russet 
tarnishings,  small  patches  of  faint  gold,  or  touches 
of  bizarre  crimson  at  rare  intervals.  The  excursion 
to  the  mountain-top  came  as  a  culmination  of  the 
holiday  sojourn.  It  would  not  be  long  before  the 
little  group  of  friends  and  rivals  would  disperse 
again.  Nothing  had  yet  been  done  by  the  Second 
Church  in  regard  to  securing  Burlen  as  its  pastor, 
the  congregation  being  still  agreeably  occupied  in 
trying  one  preacher  after  another;  but  he  did  not 
feel  inclined  to  stay  at  Pride's,  awaiting  their  deci 
sion.  Ravling,  likewise,  was  inwardly  hearkening  to 


248  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

the  call  of  legal  business,  which  was  already  sum 
moning  him  back  to  Boston. 

Yet  the  lawyer  found  it  hard  to  fix  upon  an  unal 
terable  date  for  returning.  It  must  not  be  supposed 
from  the  hints  of  a  growing  interest  in  Miss  Viola 
which  we  have  noticed,  that  his  mood  had  radically 
changed  with  regard  to  Edith.  All  that  he  had  said 
to  her  at  Marie  he  still  felt ;  but  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
conceive  how  that  subject  could  ever  come  up  be 
tween  them  again  until  after  a  longer  period  than 
had  yet  elapsed.  Still  he  waited  near  her,  vaguely 
feeling  that  something  more  definite  than  had  thus 
far  occurred  ought  to  happen  before  he  could  leave 
her  vicinity.  Mrs.  Savland,  to  whom  her  niece  had 
confided  nothing  of  Ravling's  twice-made  proposal, 
had  now  put  Whitcot  into  the  second  place  on  her 
books,  and  was  very  desirous  of  a  match  with  the 
lawyer, —not  for  herself,  but  merely  for  herself 
through  Edith.  She  found  herself  unable  to  do  any 
thing  important  towards  it,  but  she  lent  herself  to 
the  cause  of  detaining  Ravling. 

During  this  day  of  leisure  Edith  was  busy  with 
unsatisfied  mental  inquiries  concerning  the  mysteri 
ous  young  woman  whom  she  had  seen  apparently 
conversing  with  Timothy  in  the  presence  of  her 
father,  Burlen,  and  Whitcot.  She  had  afterwards 
recalled  her  face  as  that  of  the  waitress  at  the  hotel, 
whom  she  had  seen  standing  in  the  court-yard  with 
the  engineer,  —  a  thing  she  had  thought  very  singular 
at  the  time.  Could  it  be  that  something  was  going 
on  in  regard  to  this  girl  which  had  not  been  confided 


THE   CROWN   OF  MONADNOC.          249 

to  her?  Burlen's  preoccupation,  approaching  dejec 
tion,  as  he  sat  silent  under  the  linden-tree  during  the 
archery  game,  had  not  escaped  her  ;  and  if  there  was 
a  secret,  it  did  not  seem  a  very  great  leap  of  inference 
to  conclude  that  the  secret  affected  him.  Being  ut 
terly  in  the  dark  as  to  his  troubles,  however,  she 
could  not  guess  how  it  could  affect  him.  Having 
got  thus  far  in  her  meditations,  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  Edith  to  ask  herself  whether,  were  the  secret 
Ravling's  or  Whitcot's,  she  would  pay  so  much  at 
tention  to  it  as  she  was  now  doing.  Her  conscience 
promptly  answered  "No." 

This  led  to  a  haughty  little  resolve  that  she  would 
not  give  the  matter  another  thought ;  and  thereupon 
she  began  to  think  about  it  more  than  ever.  "I  do 
wish  he  would  tell  me  about  himself,"  she  finally 
said.  She  began  to  regard  his  reticence  as  a  per 
sonal  injury. 

"The  sky  looks  kind  o'  scurried  up,"  Mrs.  Pride 
informed  them,  that  evening,  on  taking  a  hasty 
meteorological  observation  before  closing  the  house- 
door  for  the  night.  But  the  morning  dawned  fair, 
and  the  atmosphere  was  fresher  for  the  recent  show 
ers.  The  drowsy  premises  soon  became  noisy  with 
the  bustle  of  preparation.  Mrs.  Pride  twitched  her 
face  a  great  deal,  and  kept  exploding  with  exclama 
tions  of  anxiety  and  impatience  as  she  hurried  about, 
getting  the  luncheon.  The  cellar-door  not  "jag 
ging"  to  her  satisfaction,  she  lifted  it  quietly  off  its 
hinges  and  laid  it  against  the  wall.  Timothy  became 


250  IN    THE   DISTANCE. 

breathless  with  his  labors  in  currying  and  harnessing 
the  horses,  and  in  attending  to  his  mother's  demands 
for  help  ;  but  she  considered  it  a  point  of  propriety 
that  he  should  not  be  allowed  to  rest  for  an  instant. 
"Come,  yon  can't  sit  there  sucking  3-011  r  claws  all 
day  ! "  she  cried,  when  he  incautiously  dropped  down 
upon  a  chair,  with  nothing  more  to  do.  "Go  and 
get  me  a  jug  for  this  cold  cotfec."  Bolting  into  the 
rust}'  outer  kitchen  to  obey  her  behest,  he  stumbled 
upon  the  three  rivals  democratically  blacking  their 
own  boots  with  as  much  vigor  as  if  their  success 
and  happiness  for  life  depended  on  outdoing  one  an 
other  in  the  splendor  of  their  polish.  Every  bod  j',  in 
fact,  was  busy. 

Viola  was  wrapping  herself  in  veils,  as  if  she 
were  a  water-color  study  which  might  fade  if  exposed 
carelessly  to  the  sunlight.  Edith  took  care  to  arm 
herself  with  a  favorite  book,  to  be  read  in  some 
cosey  perch  of  the  rocks,  but  really  destined  to  re 
main  forgotten  in  her  pocket  all  da}" ;  and  Mrs. 
Savland  packed  a  small  reticule  with  linen  bandages, 
smelling-salts,  and  witch-hazel,  in  gloomy  forebod 
ing  of  accidents  which  refused  to  occur.  Only  Arch- 
dale,  who  had  strapped  a  field-glass  over  his  shoulder 
for  the  views,  paced  up  and  down  in  exaggerated 
calm,  trying  to  counterbalance  the  undue  confusion 
into  which  the  rest  had  fallen. 

Mr.  Pride  had  already  taken  his  place  on  one  of 
the  wagons,  when  the  excursionists  came  out;  but 
in  deference  to  the  society  of  ladies  he  promptly  spat 
out  a  chip  of  wood  which  he  had  been  chewing  to 


THE   CROWN  OF  MONADNOC.          251 

curb  his  restlessness.     Then  there  ensued  a  careful 
stowing   away  of  baskets   and  pails  ;   and  Timothy 
watched   with    astonishment    the    number   of    light 
cloaks  and  shawls,   and  the   air-cushion  and  camp- 
stool,    which    Mrs.    Savland    insisted    on    carrying. 
Edith  wore  a  costume  of  plain  dark-blue,  with  glint- 
ings  of  silvered  buttons  and  narrow  silver  braid  here 
and  there.      Her  only  ornament  was  a  necklace  of 
small  amber  beads.     This  met  with  critical  approba 
tion  from  Timothy ;  but  the  other  ladies  struck  him 
as  too  elaborate.      He   preferred   Ann   Fernlow,  in 
her  modest  figured  gingham,  —  especially  since  the 
gingham  was  in  close  proximity  to  himself,  and  he 
could  look  into  the  wearer's  face  without  embarrass 
ment,  because  her  eyes  drooped  so  shyly  that  she 
did  not  see  any  part  of  Timothy  above  the  hand  in 
which  he  held  'the  reins.     At  last  they  started  ;  and 
Ann  began  to  waver  to  and  fro  with  the  jolting  of 
the  wheels  over  rough  places,  like  the  sober  grasses 
in  a  field,  swaying  gently  to  the  breeze. 

"Are  you  a  very  careful  driver,  Timothy?"  in 
quired  Archdale,  becoming  suddenly  thoughtful  after 
a  severe  downward  thump  and  abrupt  turn  while 
they  were  still  descending  the  first  hill. 

"  I  can  team  it  better  than  dad,"  the  youth  de 
clared  boastfully,  feeling  the  stimulus  of  Ann's 
presence.  "Of  course,"  he  continued  in  an  injured 
tone,  "he  wanted  to  go  first  so's  to  make  it  safer; 
and  may  be  't  is,  for  if  he  was  behind  us  I  would  n't 
insure  this  here  tool-cart  on  no  terms.  You'd  see 
him  come  shootin'  down  on  us  somewheres  just  like  a 


252  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

—  a  telescope."  Timothy  chose  this  word  from  an 
impression  that  it  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  rail 
road  collisions. 

"Is  he  so  bad  a  driver  as  that?"  asked  the  old 
gentleman,  much  concerned  for  his  sister,  who  was 
supercargo  of  the  other  wagon. 

"  No,  he  ain't  a  bad  driver ;  but  I  can  beat  him. 
I  dared  him  once  to  do  what  I  did,  —  drive  a  horse 
in  an  open  buggy  up  the  hill  back  o'  Major  Brown's 
cider-mill;  and  he  wouldn't.  Why,  it's  so  steep 
there,  —  there  ain't  any  road,  you  know,  —  that  afore 
the  horse  got  to  the  top  he  could  look  right  over  his 
ears  an'  see  his  own  back.  Easy,  too." 

"I  hardly  see  how  that  could  be  possible,"  re 
marked  the  professor,  feeling  that  he  must  hereafter 
observe  equine  anatonry  with  particular  care. 

"  Well,"  said  Timothy  with  scrupulous  exactness, 
"I  don'  know  but  that  special  horse  was  a  leetle 
mite  cross-ej'ed." 

"Ah,  yes;  perhaps  that  would  explain  it,".  Arch- 
dale  said  musingry. 

He  tried  to  appear  unconcerned  ;  but  during  a 
good  part  of  their  long  drive  he  was  in  momentary 
expectation,  when  tlie}^  passed  any  unenclosed  slope, 
of  seeing  Timothy  charge  it  with  his  horses  like  a 
battery  of  artillery  suddenly  ordered  into  action. 

Monadnoc,  that  morning,  had  resolved  itself  from 
the  slight  cloudiness  of  the  day  before  into  its  usual 
hue,  —  a  deep  aluminous  blue,  letting  the  63-6  sink  into 
recesses  of  color  seemingly  endless ;  and  the  rich 
brown  and  yellow  of  some  coreopsis  flowers,  rising 


THE   CROWN   OF  MONADNOC.         253 

on  long  stalks  from  a  low  swell  of  ground  near  the 
road,  were  thrown  against  it  like  knots  of  gold  em 
bossed  on  a  surface  of  lapis  lazuli.  But  as  they 
drew  nearer  it  changed.  The  glory  of  distance 
melted  awa}T  into  forms  and  colors  that  showed  the 
mountain  as  it  really  was,  —  a  part  of  the  eveiy-day 
world,  but  gathering  the  ordinary  elements  compos 
ing  that  into  a  grandeur  which  made  of  them  some 
thing  superior,  and  almost  lifted  them  into  a  new 
order  of  material.  Yet  the  unit}7  of  its  whole  mass, 
which  gave  it  such  a  solid  serenity  and  so  reposeful 
an  effect  when  seen  from  afar,  suffered  in  some 
degree  under  this  closer  scrutiny.  To  come  from 
looking  at  it  in  a  long  aerial  perspective  to  contem 
plating  it  here,  was  like  suddenly  meeting  an  old 
friend  whom  one  has  known  in  the  prime  of  life,  and 
finding  his  face  stricken  and  scarred  with  age  and 
sorrow.  Among  the  thick  woods  banked  upon  its 
sides  rude  ledges  of  rock  showed  through  in  some 
places,  with  a  dead  ashy  tint.  Even  the  trunks 
and  branches  of  the  trees  in  the  white  sunlight  that 
brought  out  the  dry  gray  of  their  bark,  made  the 
skeleton  of  the  forest  quite  as  prominent  as  its  cov 
ering  ;  the  unreckoned  mj'riads  of  leaves  seemed  to 
have  alighted  on  the  limbs  only  to  rest  a  while  before 
departing  again  with  the  quick  flight  of  the  New 
England  summer.  And  for  a  brief  space  while  he 
could  regard  the  mountainous  mass  at  a  particular 
angle,  with  its  rough  features  gathered  together  in  a 
particular  way,  Bnrlen  was  startled  at  the  aspect  of 
hard,  immovable  agony  in  which  it  presented  itself 


254  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

to  him.  The  next  moment  the  soft  sky  above  it, 
full  of  dim  white  convolutions  of  cloud  that  hung 
motionless  or  dissolved  imperceptibly,  gave  it  a  be 
nignant  and  peaceful  air.  A  bird  was  seen  flying 
over  it  in  the  sunny  ether,  as  if  it  were  nothing  so 
very  terrible  or  significant  after  all.  Birds  were 
singing  in  the  green  hiding-places  about  it,  treating 
it  familiarly.  Then  the  wagons  passed  through  a 
gate  on  the  road,  to  begin  winding  up  towards  a 
small  hotel  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain  ;  and 
Monadnoc  from  this  point  was  transformed  into  a 
great,  cheerful  mound,  decked  with  waving  festival 
boughs. 

44  What's  the  gate  for?"  asked  Viola. 

"  It's  to  keep  the  mounting  from  strayin'  into  any- 
body's  pastur',"  said  Timothy.  "  That 's  all." 

They  had  started  early ;  so  that  when  they  came 
to  the  hotel,  at  the  end  of  the  wagon-road,  it  was 
agreed  to  make  the  climb  to  the  crest  before  lunch 
ing.  Viola  and  "Whitcot  at  once  moved  forward  on 
the  rough  path  that  led  thither,  stirred  by  a  desire 
to  be  the  first  to  reach  the  top  ;  Burlen  and  Edith, 
chancing  to  be  near  together,  followed.  This  left 
Ravling  in  the  position  of  having  to  offer  his  services 
to  Mrs.  Savland,  as  Archdale  hesitated  to  attempt 
the  rather  arduous  ascent.  Miss  Viola,  with  a  tin 
flower-case  fastened  at  her  waist,  looked  like  a  Diana 
with  a  cartridge-box,  and  trudged  ahead  at  a  speed 
equally  appropriate  to  the  fleet  huntress.  She  soon 
disappeared  with  her  escort  along  the  rising  way  that 
passed  under  a  continuous  canopy  of  3*011  ng  trees  ; 


THE   CROWN  OF  MONADNOC.          255 

and  as  Mrs.  Savlancl  moved  at  a  slow  pace  in  the 
rear,  Burlcn  was  left  in  enviable  solitude  with  Edith. 
The  mountain-side  was  full  of  delightful  sounds. 
They  heard  the  liquid  trill  of  the  wood-pigeon  and 
the  distant,  hushed  babble  of  running  water.  A  red 
squirrel  scampered  across  their  course  at  one  point, 
and  at  another  when  they  sat  down  to  rest  on  a 
convenient  flat  slab  of  stone,  the  rich,  low  murmur 
of  wild  bees  accompanied  their  talk  with  an  en 
chanting  undertone. 

They  gained  an  open  plateau  strown  with  tumbled 
fragments  from  the  topmost  ridge  that  rose  abruptly 
above  it ;  and  from  here  on,  the  real  climb  from  rock 
to  rock  beginning,  Burlen  had  to  give  Edith  his  hand 
more  than  once.  They  had  hitherto  seldom  even 
shaken  hands;  and  whenever  .they  had  done  so  it 
was  alwa}'s  with  a  light,  escaping  touch  on  Edith's 
part.  But  now  she  grasped  strongly  for  help,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  a  gain  that  she  shtwld  place  this 
much  reliance  on  him.  -As  they  toiled  upward,  a 
wandering  night-hawk  sailed  high  over  their  heads, 
his  muffled,  secret  note  falling  like  a  question  :  u  Who 
are  these  ?  —  are  these  ?  "  Perhaps  the  true  answer 
would  have  been,  "A  pair  of  lovers."  But  as  yet 
Burlen  could  not  be  sure  that  this  was  the  true  one. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  narrow,  uneven  surlace 
at  the  top,  —  a  solid  floor  of  schist  cross-lined,  irregu 
larly  worn  away  by  the  conflicts  of  time,  and  pitted 
with  fine  dents  from  billions  of  driving  rain-drops 
during  man}7  centuries,  —  they  discovered  Whitcot 
and  Viola,  busily  looking  at  various  points  in  the 


256  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

vast  landscape  below,  and  holding  on  to  their  hats 
against  the  swift  breeze  that  came  bounding  and 
sweeping  with  unexpected  velocity  over  the  bare, 
stony  crest. 

"Only  think  of  it!"  cried  the  Diana  of  the  tin 
box.  "We  can  see  Boston,  Edith!  But  it's  only 
a  little  smoky  spot  on  the  horizon,  down  there  where 
you  see  just  a  narrow  blue  strip  of  sea.  Look  !  " 

4 '  We  have  been  talking  about  the  geology  of 
the  mountain,"  Whitcot  announced,  looking  rather 
learned. 

As  Burlen  looked  off'  to  where  the  faint  line  of  the 
sea  was  visible,  the  grim  mountain  under  their  feet 
seemed  to  be  looking  also  at  the  distant  ocean  which, 
in  ages  past,  had  lapped  its  base  and  had  now  re 
treated  so  far.  "It's  curious  to  reflect,"  he  said, 
"  that  that 's  really  the  rim  of  an  immense  continent ; 
and  I  've  been  told  that  Monadnoc  is  one  of  the 
oldest  mountains  in  it.  I  believe  it 's  what  the}'  call 
Laurentian,  isn't  it?" 

Whitcot  believed  it  was,  in  part.  "Just  imagine, 
Edith,  wild  boars  making  their  dens  here  in  some 
one  of  the  former  C}Tcles  of  vegetation,"  he  went  on ; 
"and  you  can  throw  in,  if  you  like,  one  or  two 
woolly  elephants  roaming  among  the  palms  and  cin 
namons." 

"A  woolly  elephant?     How  absurd  !  "  said  Viola. 

"Did  elephants  ever  make  themselves  ridiculous 
by  having  wool?"  asked  Edith. 

"Yes.  But  it  probably  didn't  strike  them  as 
ridiculous.  I  've  no  doubt  the}*  took  it  veiy  seri- 


THE   CROWN  OF  MONADNOC.          257 

ously.  Fashion  makes  all  the  difference  —  even  with 
animals  of  that  calibre." 

They  went  around  to  the  northern  side,  overlook 
ing  Dublin  Lake,  which  from  here  dwindles  to  some 
thing  like  the  proportions  of  a  hand-mirror ;  and 
they  tried  to  study  the  marks  made  by  the  continen 
tal  glacier,  which  at  some  points  on  Monadnoc  cut 
gashes  two  feet  deep  into  the  stony  wall,  before  it 
loosed  its  cold  clutch  forever. 

44  One  can  hardly  imagine  that  time,"  said  Burlen, 
"  even  after  reading  about  it.  And  }'et  some  plants 
grow  here  even  now  that  belong  properly  to  the  high 
North  or  to  the  snowy  Alps,  —  certain  varieties  of 
saxifrage,  I  believe.  They  are  a  legacy  of  the  glacial 
period,  and  would  never  have  appeared  here  at  all, 
if  it  had  n't  been  for  that  great  procession  of  ice 
which  passed  b^y,  thousands  of  years  ago." 

"  So  these  little  flowers  still  keep  the  ice  in  re 
membrance?"  Edith  asked.  "Isn't  that  strange? 
And  there 's  something  very  beautiful  in  it,  too." 
She  looked  far  away  over  the  dim  world  below  them, 
musing,  with  a  look  of  wondering  pleasure.  "Oh, 
I'm  so  glad  we  came  up  here!"  she  exclaimed,  en 
thusiastically,  bringing  her  gaze  back  to  what  was 
immediately  around  her. 

11  Let's  go  down  again,"  the  engineer  proposed,  in 
a  moment  more.  "It  blows  too  hard  up  here,  and 
I  'in  getting  frightfully  hungry,  besides." 

Viola  was  ready ;  but  Edith  declared  she  had  not 
seen  half  enough-  "  I  'm  going  to  see  if  I  can  find  a 
more  sheltered  place,"  she  added,  "  out  of  the  wind, 
17 


258  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

where  I  can  sit  and  look  at  things  a  little.  But 
don't  wait,  Viola :  I  shall  start  back  very  soon." 

The  two  disappeared  over  the  side  of  the  rocky 
platform  as  if  they  had  gone  clown  a  trap-door.  By 
the  time  they  were  out  of  sight  Edith  had  found  an 
elbow  of  the  ridge  which  would  keep  off  the  wind 
and  still  permit  a  sufficient  view  into  the  valle}7 ;  so 
she  sat  down  behind  it,  and  Burlen  took  a  place  near 
her. 

"Is  that  Savage's?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the 
village  that  lay  at  such  a  dizzying  depth  and  so  far 
away. 

"  It  must  be,"  he  said,  "  though  it  seems  as  frail 
and  insignificant  as  a  few  white  egg-shells  that  have 
fallen  down  there  and  broken." 

"There  is  something  awful  about  these  great 
heights,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  shudder.  "  I  feel 
almost  lost  in  space.  Real!}',  Mr.  Burlen,  it  makes 
me  think  how  to  God,  looking  down  on  the  worlds, 
we  must  dwindle  down  into  one  small  speck.  All 
our  souls  and  hearts  together  make  only  a  little 
atom,  for  Him." 

"And  what  then?"  Burlen  asked,  curious  to  find 
out  what  she  was  thinking  further. 

' '  What  then  ?  "  she  repeated .  "Is  n't  that  enough  ? 
It  makes  it  very  hard  to  hold  on  to  belief  and  to  all 
that's  best,  if  one  feels  that  there  is  nothing  supreme 
and  individual  about  one's  self." 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  me  so,"  he  said,  simply. 
"  We  have  the  sense  of  being  important  and  being 
individuals.  That  is  enough.  For  instance,  suppose 


THE   CROWN  OF  MONADNOC.          259 

I  am  crushed,  beaten  down  into  obscurity  in  this 
life  ;  do  you  think  I  should  lose  that  sense  of  indi 
vidual  being?  Not  at  all.  Well;  if  I  don't  lose  it 
in  sinking  into  insignificance  before  men,  I  certainly 
ought  not  to  before  God,  because  He  is  more  sympa 
thetic  and  sees  farther  than  they  do." 

She  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  sighed.  "  Ah, 
that 's  because  you  have  a  plan  in  your  life.  I  have 
thought  I  had,  too ;  but  I  'm  not  so  sure  now.  At 
any  rate,  my  aim  does  n't  seem  good  for  much,  any 
longer." 

"What  aim  is  it?" 

uOh,  you  would  despise  it,  of  course,"  she  said. 
"  I  half  do,  myself.  I  have  had  an  ambition  to  lead 
in  society,  —  in  a  good  way,  you  know ;  but  still,  to 
take  a  place  where  I  can  lead  others.  I  have  n't 
been  willing  to  be  lost  in  anything.  I  'm  afraid  I 
want  other  people  and  things  to  be  lost  in  me." 

"  I  think  you  don't  quite  do  your  idea  justice," 
he  said.  u  To  be  a  good  leader  is  n't  a  thing  to  de 
spise."  He  spoke  with  some  reserve,  however,  and 
stopped  short. 

"  Yes,  but  I  think  it  would  be  finer  if  I  put  down 
that  arrogant  feeling,  wouldn't  it?"  she  made  an 
swer.  "  I  ought  to  learn  to  lose  myself  a  little." 

"That's  a  virtue,  undoubtedly,"  said  the  }'oung 
preacher,  feeling  that  he  would  much  rather  adore 
than  give  counsel,  in  this  case. 

The}7  became  silent,  and  strong  feelings  rushed 
through  his  mind  during  the  pause.  Would  she  be 
willing  to  lose  herself  at  all  in  him?  Could  he  ask 


2GO  IX   THE  DISTANCE. 

her  to  do  so?  And  would  it  be  too  much  like  sac 
rificing  her  to  himself?  Then  there  came  a  throb 
bing  exultation  at  the  thought  of  possibly  winning 
her. 

The  moment  they  ceased  speaking,  the  silence  of 
the  mountain-top  began  to  close  in  around  them  like 
oblivion ;  though  it  was  accented  by  the  cry  of  a 
bird  now  and  then,  or  the  steady  low  buffeting  of 
the  wind  around  the  stony  crown.  This  influence 
threw  Burlen  into  a  species  of  brief  trance,  in  which 
a  palingenesis  of  Nature  took  place.  He  saw  and 
felt  in  a  few  minutes,  as  if  by  actual  experience  of 
his  own,  all  the  marvellous  mutations  through  which 
this  great  bulwark  of  the  valleys  had  passed  during 
lapsed  aeons. 

The  ancient  sea-mud  began  to  heave  and  harden 
and  crystallize  under  the  influence  of  creative  heat, 
and  then  rose  above  the  universal  waters.  This  was 
the  small  beginning  of  the  mountain.  Ages  passed 
by  in  a  flash,  and  the  air  shook  with  illimitable  thun 
ders  as  new  ranges  burst  upward,  and  this  one  was 
carried  higher.  The  earth-crust  cracked  and  curled 
like  burning  paper ;  wrinkled  valleys  drew  out  their 
uneasy  length  between  the  heights.  There  was  a  new 
inrushing  of  the  sea,  swarming  with  speechless  ma 
rine  life  ;  there  were  floods  of  fire.  Out  of  the  life 
less  and  inorganic  rose  like  a  mist  the  first  life  of 
plants  and  reptiles,  and  was  expunged  again  like  a 
mist.  Then  came  another  order  of  gigantic  birds 
and  beasts,  with  a  prodigious  tropic  vegetation. 
Thousands  of  years  had  passed  over  the  moun- 


THE   CROWN  OF  MONADNOC.          261 

tain's  head,  but  it  kept  the  productiveness  of  youth 
and  nurtured  a  multifarious  life,  putting  forth  rich 
beauties  of  growth.  But  another  period  of  death 
arrived ;  this  time  by  freezing ;  and  the  ice-blocks 
ground  off  and  carried  away  from  the  mountain  sub 
stance  enough  to  make  a  little  kingdom.  What  was 
left  of  Monadnoc  now  was  only  a  ruin  of  its  former 
self. 

But  it  still  took  its  part  in  the  new  creation ;  it 
germinated  new  forests  ;  it  submitted  to  the  foot  of 
a  new  species  of  being  — man.  The  soft  white  clouds 
drifted  above  it ;  the  ancient  height  smiled  in  the 
sunlight.  And  here,  on  its  impassive  summit,  a  lover 
mused  in  the  presence  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

This  huge  creation  of  extinct  forces  was  a  founda 
tion  for  him.  He  rose  upon  it  in  the  strength  of  a 
race  loftier  than  all  preceding  forms  of  life.  The 
rock  was  inert  and  lifeless :  he  breathed.  The 
rock  could  endure  till  the  dissolution  of  the  earth, 
and  it  required  nothing  outside  of  itself.  The  man 
would  not  endure  so  long,  but  he  could  share  his  life 
with  others,  and  had  the  privilege,  the  need,  of  draw 
ing  upon  their  life  and  love. 

It  was  a  singular  mood,  and  lasted  only  a  few  min 
utes  ;  but  a  mysterious  strength  and  inspiration 
seemed  to  rise  up  out  of  the  dark  bulk  beneath  him 
and  pass  into  his  veins,  as  he  dreamed.  It  was  a 
current  of  longing  that  flowed  up  from  the  very  roots 
of  time,  he  fancied,  and  filled  his  heart,  —  as  if  this 
alone  were  what  the  mountain  had  been  waiting  for. 
Must  he  not  obey  its  impulsion  ? 


262  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  da}',"  he  asked,  "  when 
I  met  you  coming  back  on  the  stage,  at  the  Cleft, 
and  we  looked  off  at  Monadnoc  and  talked  about 
it?" 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed.  Now  that  I'm  here,  though,  it 
hardly  seems  the  same  mountain  an}'  more." 

"It's  very  strange,"  he  rejoined,  "to  find  our 
selves  in  possession,  as  it  seems,  of  what  we  saw  so 
far  from  us  a  few  weeks  ago.  It  strikes  me  as  the 
same  only  in  one  way  ;  that  is,  it  still  forms  a  sort 
of  centre  for  plans  and  hopes  that  were  beginning 
to  connect  themselves  with  it  then.  It  looked  so 
unattainable,  then  ;  and  yet  here  I  am  on  the  crest ! 
I  'm  wondering  whether  I  ought  to  hope  that  I  shall 
reach  other  unattainable  things,  the  same  way." 

For  an  instant  she  thought  he  had  in  mind  the 
question  of  success  in  his  vocation.  "Why  not?" 
she  returned,  looking  brightly  at  him. 

"Ah,  you  don't  understand.  It  is  you  I  am 
thinking  of." 

"  I?" 

They  looked  straight  into  one  another's  eyes.  Edith 
felt  as  if  the  wide  air-spaces  around  them  were  grow 
ing  thinner  and  colder  ;  she  put  out  her  hand  with  a 
gesture  as  though  she  might  cling  to  the  young  man 
for  protection,  and  then  quickly  drew  it  back.  He 
had  risen  when  he  began  to  speak,  and  was  looking 
down  on  her  almost  with  an  effect  of  being  in  some 
way  a  part  of  the  sunn}'  cloud  which  she  beheld 
stretched  out  on  either  side  of  him  in  the  sky  be 
yond.  His  face  was  transfigured  by  a  tender  light. 


THE   CROWN  OF  MONADNOC.          263 

"  Have  }'ou  never  seen  it?"  he  asked.  "I  love 
you.  I  love  you  with  all  the  good  that  is  in  me, 
Miss  Archdale.  Do  you  think  I  could  rise  to  you, 
by  the  strength  of  my  love  ?  " 

"No,  no!  I  haven't  really  known  it," .  she  an 
swered  him,  finding  that  the  flickering  consciousness 
of  his  admiration  which  she  had  felt  from  time  to 
time  had  never  disclosed  what  this  one  open,  over 
mastering  glance  of  devout  passion  revealed.  "It 
is  /,  Mr.  Burlen,  — I'm  afraid  I  could  not  be  worthy 
of  your  love." 

*fc  How  can  that  be,  Edith?  Don't  make  me  feel 
my  own  unworthiness  still  more,  by  speaking  so. 
Tell  me  ;  tell  me  !  Everything  seems  to  depend  on 
what  j'ou  answer."  But  she  did  not  answer.  She 
looked  slowly  away  over  the  valle}'s  and  the  hills 
that  slept  in  hazy  unreality  below.  Here  on  the 
mountain's  crown  it  seemed  eas}7  to  stand  with  Bur 
len  alone,  and  respond  to  his  avowal  with  an  inten 
sity  and  trust  matching  his  own.  But  how  would  it 
be  down  in  that  every-day  world?  He  saw  that  her 
hand  trembled,  and  stealing  nearer  took  it  in  his 
own.  "Oh,  Edith,"  he  said,  with  the  gentleness  of 
awed  wonder:  "can  it  be  true?" 

The  amber  beads  showed  b}-  their  movement  that 
she  was  breathing  too  tremulously  to  speak.  But 
she  bent  her  head.  It  was  a  consent,  and  at  the 
same  time  an  attitude  of  reverence  for  the  happiness 
which  was  descending  upon  her.  Burlen  drew  her 
hand  softly  to  his  lips,  but  when  he  let  it  go  again 
he  wondered  if  it  were  really  her  hand  that  he  had 


264  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

kissed,  and  what  had  become  of  all  that  past  so 
recently  existent,  wherein  this  little  act  would  have 
been  impossible. 

Suddenly  she  turned  towards  him  again,  and  with 
bright  tears  in  her  eyes  began  to  smile.  "  After 
all,"  she  said,  "I  haven't  given  you  any  answer  in 
words.  But  I  do  —  trust  you,  Robert."  She  could 
not  utter  the  more  tender  word  }'et.  "Oh,  but  I 
can't  believe  you  feel  so  about  me.  Why,  I  have  so 
man}7  faults  !  "  She  gazed  at  him  with  something 
like  dismay. 

If  there  is  any  one  thing  more  than  another  that 
will  intoxicate  a  young  man  when  thoroughly  in  love, 
it  is  to  hear  his  goddess  speak  of  herself  as  a  mere 
woman  exemplifying  the  defects  of  her  kind. 

Burlen  became  still  happier  than  before.  u  How 
ignorant  }'ou  are  about  yourself!"  he  cried,  with  a 
new  gayety.  "  That's  a  fault,  I  admit ;  and  a  very 
serious  one.  But  I  hope  I  can  remedy  it.  I  '11  try, 
I  can  assure  }rou." 

"  But  I  will  try  to  be  good,  Robert.  And  j'ou 
will  help  me.  You  will  teach  me  everything,  won't 
3rou?  And  we  will  learn  together.  And  if  I  can  be 
of  any  use  to  you, — if  yon  really  think  I  can  help 
you  in  your  career,  — oh,  how  happy  I  shall  be  !  " 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  he  said,  some  time  after,  as 
they  still  lingered  there  —  "one  thing  I  had  forgot 
ten.  I  have  not  yet  told  you  about  myself  and  my 
past.  Have  you  thought  how  little  you  know  about 
me?" 

"  In  that  way  —  }'es.  But  I  think  I  know  a  great 
deal  about  you  that  is  better  worth  while." 


THE   CROWN  OF  MONADNOC.          265 

"  What  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  will  be  full  of  pain- 
fulness  and  wretchedness,"  he  persisted,  a  shadow  of 
his  old  grief  darkening  his  face  for  an  instant,  as  if 
the  sky  above  them  had  become  a  little  less  radiant. 

"What  of  that?"  she  answered,  full  of  hope. 
She  thought  that,  standing  with  him  in  this  lonely 
place,  she  gained  a  new  conception  of  how  heavy  the 
solitude  of  sorrow  must  have  been  that  had  encom 
passed  him.  But  she  also  thought  that,  with  the 
strength  of  their  union,  she  could  dissipate  the  last 
trace  of  it.  "  Could  I  truly  love  you,"  she  asked, 
"  unless  I  expected  to  share  your  burdens  as  well  as 
your  joys?  I  love  you  for  yourself,  not  what  you 
may  have  been  through ;  but  all  your  trials,  past 
and  to  come,  will  be  dear  to  me,  if  I  can  help  you 
in  them." 

"Bravely  spoken!"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  frank, 
unconventional  way.  He  drew  her  to  him  in  a  proud 
embrace. 

And  so  on  the  rough  ledge  that  diadems  Monad- 
noc's  head,  the  flower  of  love  and  aspiration  bloomed 
naturally  above  the  wreck  of  ages,  shedding  its  per 
fume  on  two  young  hearts  united. 


266  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XXII. 

TREACHERY. 

AS  the  lovers  moved  across  the  open  space  on 
the  crest  to  begin  their  descent,  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  a  man  rose  above  the  verge  of  the  rocky 
terrace  on  which  they  stood,  just  at  the  point  towards 
which  the}*  were  going.  The  face  that  thus  con 
fronted  them  was  Ravling's. 

Burlen  instantly  released  Edith's  arm,  which  was 
resting  in  his.  But  the  pale,  stricken  visage  of  the 
young  law}*er  showed  that  he  had  comprehended  the 
situation  at  once,  and  had  read  in  it  his  own  doom. 
He  remained  motionless,  his  figure  concealed  by  the 
rock,  from  the  shoulders  down  ;  so  that  he  had  a 
curious  air  of  being  three  quarters  buried,  and  look 
ing  up  out  of  his  grave  in  envy  at  the  new  happiness 
of  his  rival. 

"We  were  getting  anxious  about  3*011,"  he  said, 
as  they  came  nearer,  making  a  brave  attempt  at  a, 
cheery,  commonplace  tone.  "  That  is,  Mrs.  Savland 
was.  She  gave  out  at  the  foot  of  the  peak  here,  and 
asked  me  to  come  up  and  look  for  .you." 

I  don't  think  Burlen  and  Edith  had  airy  very  defi 
nite  idea  as  to  what  took  place  after  this,  except  that 
lunch  was  eaten  under  some  trees  near  the  hotel,  and 
that  they,  individually  or  dually,  were  in  a  state  of 


TREACHERY.  2G7 

transport  for  which  enjoyment  would  have  been  a 
tame  word.  To  the  young  man  the  whole  world 
seemed  altered ;  the  landscape  was  peculiarly  lumi 
nous,— lie  could  have  walked  twenty  miles  without 
fatigue.  It  was  strange,  too,  that  he  had  ever 
thought  life  a  problematical  or  difficult  thing  :  it  pre 
sented  no  desperate  perplexities  at  all.  So  far  was 
he  carried  by  this  conviction  of  its  amiable  harm- 
lessness,  that  he  was  about  to  pick  a  cluster  of  red 
berries  resembling  mountain-ash,  the  touch  of  which 
alone  is  poison,  when  suddenly  prevented  by  Rav- 
ling,  who  — feeling  his  generosity  challenged  by  his 
accidental  discovery  of  the  new  state  of  affairs  — 
exercised  a  careful  protection  over  the  lovers  during 
the  rest  of  the  trip. 

On  the  drive  home,  they  came  to  a  cross-roads 
where  they  had  to  wait  a  moment  for  another  team 
that  was  moving  across  the  track.  Ravling  noticed 
it  especially,  on  account  of  an  odd  correspondence 
between  the  white  horse  marked  off  into  sections  by 
the  black  straps  of  his  harness  and  the  man  in  the 
wagon  who  was  informally  attired  in  black  trousers 
and  a  white  shirt,  so  that  his  back,  crossed  by  a  pair 
of  suspenders,  presented  a  large  X  boldly  marked 
upon  the  cotton  expanse.  While  he  was  looking  at 
this,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  seen  the  man 
before. 

"  Hello  !  There  's  Stubbs,"  exclaimed  Pride,  sud 
denly  drawing  in  the  reins. 

The  other  man  turned,  and  disclosed  the  pinched 
features  and  economical  skin  of  Marshall  Stubbs, 


268  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

the  driver  of  the  stage  between  Willowbridge  and 
Marie. 

"  What  can  he  be  doing  here  ?  "  questioned  Burlen. 

This  was  speedily  answered  by  a  brief  conversation 
between  the  farmer  and  the  driver  on  the  subject  of 
hay.  "He  comes  up  here  on  'spec,"  Pride  added 
for  the  enlightenment  of  the  party.  '  "  Comes  every 
season  — the  old  skinflint!  An'  it  pays  him,  too. 
He  gets  our  hay  for  a  little  somethin'  under  nothin', 
and  then  sells  at  a  fair  profit  down  to  Boston.  We 
have  to  do  it  'cause  we  hain't  got  the  facilities.  But 
Fernlow,  he  burned  a  lot  o'  his  hay,  last  year,  rather  'n 
give  in." 

Having  delivered  this  gloomy  information,  Mr. 
Pride  dropped  into  a  train  of  rather  depressing  med 
itation,  and  repeated  some  of  his  former  comments 
on  the  increasing  brevity  of  grass.  "Got  down's 
low's  my  knee,  now,"  he  muttered.  "Bimebyit'll 
get  down  to  tinder  that,  and  then  it  '11  keep  on  till  I 
get  under  it"  And  he  contemplated  his  long  legs 
with  a  grieved  surprise,  that,  when  his  person  afforded 
such  fine  opportunities  for  measuring  a  very  tall  crop, 
the  grass  should  avail  itself  thereof  to  so  slight  an 
extent. 

Burlen,  remembering  the  smothered  dislike  which 
Stubbs  had  on  several  occasions  manifested  towards 
him,  —  for  no  ostensible  reason  except  that  he  was 
an  enthusiast  for  beautiful  scenery,  —  was  conscious 
of  an  equally  strong  repugnance  for  the  stage-driver. 
Pride's  statement  regarding  him  seemed  to  justify 
this  antipathy.  But  how  curious,  that,  on  the  very 


TREACHERY.  269 

day  when  the  young  man  had  attained  to  that  prom 
ise  of  a  felicity  the  highest  he  could  imagine  here 
below,  Stubbs  should  again  cross  his  path,  —  a  sod 
den  incarnation  of  sordidness  creeping  up  from  Marie 
into  the  grand  demesne  of  the  mountains,  for  a  brief 
recreation  in  the  form  of  hard  bargaining !  So  it 
seemed  to  Burlen  ;  but  he  soon  forgot  the  man  again 
with  the  renewal  of  that  buoyant  contentment  on 
which  he  was  just  at  present  being  wafted  along 
without  effort. 

Edith  did  not  run  to  her  aunt,  on  getting  back  to 
the  farm,  with  any  confession  of  her  engagement. 
She  could  not  possibly  have  laid  her  head  on  that 
lady's  fragile  and  inadequate  shoulder,  there  to  im 
part  in  broken  murmurs  —  which  I  believe  is  the 
accepted  idea  of  what  should  be  done  on  these  occa 
sions  —  the  wonderful  secret  of  her  joy.  Mrs.  Sav- 
land's  mind  was  not  large  enough  to  contain  so  great, 
so  expansive  a  confidence  ;  and  to  pour  it  out  upon 
her  would  have  been  only  a  desecration.  But  if  she 
did  not  receive  the  substance  of  it,  she  at  least  gath 
ered  some  of  the  essence.  She  had  a  conviction  that 
"  something  had  happened  ;  "  and  therefore  she  was 
not  unprepared  for  the  news  when  Archdale  came  to 
her  towards  evening,  and  told  her  that  Burlen  had 
asked  for  Edith's  hand  and  had  been  accepted. 

"  Oh,  Thomas  !     And  you  approve?" 

"  Yes,  Grace.     I  do." 

The  next  remark  of  his  sister  seemed  irrelevant. 
"  Where  are  my  medicines?"  she  asked,  vaguely. 

"Your  what?" 


270  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"Medicines!" 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  going  to  do?  Prepare  a 
philter  to  change  their  affections?  "  Archdale  broke 
into  unseemly  laughter,  and  was  half  stifled  by  his 
efforts  to  repress  it. 

"  Thomas,"  said  Mrs.  Savland,  deeply  injured, 
"  }'ou  are  unfeeling, — unchristian!  Don't  3*ou  see 
how  faint  this  news  makes  me?" 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  anxiously,  "  I  never  thought  of 
that.  "Where  are  the  medicines?" 

"  In  that  little  black  box  there,"  Grace  answered 
promptly. 

He  wondered  why  she  had  asked,  if  she  knew  so 
well ;  but  he  got  them  for  her  in  silence.  Poor  Mrs. 
Savland's  bandages  and  lotions  had  been  useless,  that 
d^v,  and  were  still  more  useless  in  face  of  the  pres 
ent  disaster.  But  she  comforted  her  spirit  and  her 
nerves  as  well  as  she  could  by  swallowing  a  quantity 
of  little  pulsatilla  sugar-pills.  She  refrained,  how 
ever,  from  coming  down  to  tea,  and  finished  off  a 
large  supply  of  toast  in  the  grief-laden  silence  of  her 
own  room  and  heart.  "And  the  cruelest  pang  of 
all,"  she  declared  internally  while  consuming  the  last 
piece,  "  is  that  my  own  brother's  daughter  should  re 
fuse  me  her  confidence."  At  this  point  the  scented 
handkerchief  came  into  pla}*,  and  when  her  face  again 
emerged  from  the  folds  it  was  if  possible  serencr, 
more  im wrinkled,  and  more  placidly  narrow  than  ever. 

But  Edith  did  steal  into  Viola's  room  before  they 
went  to  bed,  to  tell  her  what  had  happened.  It  was 
done  with  such  maturitj^  of  manner,  so  restful  and 


TREACHERY.  271 

satisfied  a  calm,  that  Viola  —  who  prided  herself  on 
her  "  sympathy,"  and  was  ready  to  be  quite  shattered 
by  affectionate  and  tearful  responsiveness  to  her 
friend's  new,  sweet  delight  —  was  astonished  at  the 
ease  of  the  announcement,  and  hardly  knew  what  to 
do.  Notwithstanding  this,  they  exchanged  so  many 
hugs  and  kisses  that  one  would  have  supposed  it  was 
they  who  were  engaged  to  each  other.  After  a  while 
Miss  Welsted,  sitting  on  the  bedside,  looked  up  at 
Edith,  who  stood  by  her,  and  said  falteringly,  — 

"I'm  so  glad,  if  you  are  glad,  Edith.  And  I  — 
I  thought,  all  the  time,  it  was  going  to  be  Mr. 
Ravling." 

"No,  dear,"  said  Edith  with  peculiar  sweetness, 
"  I  think  he  is  going  to  marry  some  one  else." 

This  remark  may  appear  superfluous,  since  it  was 
obvious  that  the  lawyer  could  not  marry  Edith  under 
existing  circumstances.  But  Viola  understood  what 

O 

it  meant.  She  gazed  at  her  companion  with  grati 
tude  and  a  personal  satisfaction  of  her  own  glisten 
ing  in  her  eyes,  and  made  an  answer  which  to  both 
of  them  seemed  perfectly  adequate.  "You're  a 
sweet,  lovely  creature,  Edith,"  was  what  she  said. 

And  Edith  retired,  with  a  double  cause  for  plea 
sure.  She  rejoiced  in  the  virtuous  consciousness  of 
having  given  up  Ravling  to  her  friend  ;  and  this  con 
sciousness  was  enhanced  by  the  comfortable  knowl 
edge  that  she  did  not  want  Ravling  herself. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Archdale,  in  the  conference  which 
he,  for  his  share,  held  with  the  other  part}^  to  the 
betrothal,  "  that  3*011  are  not  going  to  be  in  any 


272  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

haste  about  talking  over  3*011  r  past  worries  with 
Edith."  The  truth  was,  much  as  the  mild-hearted 
professor  had  sought  to  reconcile  himself  to  all  the 
conditions  of  this  match,  the  blemish  upon  Bur- 
len's  antecedents  was  still  very  distasteful  to  him. 
He  wanted  to  have  it  obliterated ;  and  the  nearest 
practicable  approach  to  this  was  for  all  concerned 
to  ignore  it.  "I  regard  the  whole  thing  as  settled, 
now,"  he  concluded.  "  Why  not  put  it  altogether 
behind  you,  and  consider  your  life  as  really  beginning 
now?  The  actual  beginning  was  a  shadow-play,  a 
failure  ;  abortive.  You  have  outlived  it.  The  alarm 
about  your  sister's  presence  here  is  done  away  with. 
You  have  framed  new  and  more  fit  conditions  for 
your  career.  Is  n't  it  strictly  logical  to  put  ever3*- 
thing  inharmonious  out  of  sight?" 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  ever  do  that,"  returned 
the  3*oung  man,  yieldingly.  "But  it  ma3T  be  better 
not  to  talk  of  those  things  again,  even  though  Edith 
must  of  course  know  them  all,  in  time." 

Archdale  winced  at  this  thought.  "  At  all  events," 
he  urged,  "  let  us  put  it  off.  She  trusts  you,  and  has 
good  reason  to.  Let  things  settle,  for  a  while.  If  1 
advise  you  to  wait,  certainly  she  will  not  blame  }rou 
for  doing  so."  He  waited  some  moments  for  an  an 
swer,  and  then  demanded  wistfully:  "Are  we  in 
accord,  Robert?  Do  3~ou  promise  me  to  be  silent, 
for  the  present  ?  " 

Life  had  grown  so  bright ;  the  future  seemed  so 
simple  ;  this  advice  was  so  insinuating  and  soothing, 
— Burlen  rapidly  came  to  think  that  he  might  as  well 


TREACHERY.  273 

agree.     "Yes,"  he  at  length  said,  "  if  you  wish  me,  I 
will  promise  —  for  the  present." 

His  original  intention  had  been  to  have  a  long  and 
important  talk  with  Edith  the  very  next  morning, 
which  should  make  her  the  sharer  of  his  past  as  well 
as  of  his  present  and  future.  But  this  interposition 
on  her  father's  part,  immaterial  as  it  seemed  at  the 
moment,  changed  the  course  of  events  decidedly. 

When  the  two  defeated  rivals  withdrew  to  their 
tent  that  night,  the  law\'er  subsided  dejectedly  upon 
his  couch  of  hemlock-boughs,  and  with  a  vehemence 
he  seldom  gave  way  to  exclaimed :  "  I  'm  sick  of 
this,  Whitcot !  I've  stayed  here  too  long." 

"  Wiry,  what  has  come  over  you?  "  demanded  the 
other,  comfortably  lighting  a  brier-pipe  which  he  had 
just  filled,  and  taking  his  place  on  a  camp-stool  in 
the  tent-door.  The  moonlight  was  streaming  in 
over  him,  and  gave  him  a  luminous  greenish,  ghostly 
look,  sharply  in  contrast  with  the  rub}*  spot  of  fire  in 
the  pipe-bowl  below  his  lips.  "  I  thought  you  were 
very  well  pleased." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  responded  Ravling,  slowly, 
"that  the  mountain  air  agrees  with  me.  Boh! 
Don't  you  notice  the  chill  to-night?  It's  fairly 
autumnal."  He  added,  with  a  sarcasm  reserved  for 
his  own  private  appreciation:  "  I  found  it  surpris 
ingly  cold  up  on  top  of  the  mountain  to-day.  The 
life  seemed  to  go  out  of  me,  when  I  got  up  there." 

"  Well,  if  you're  going  to  leave,  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to,  as  well,"  said  the  engineer. 
18 


274  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

ii  Not  necessarily,"  Ravling  replied,  from  the 
dark  couch  where  he  was  now  half  reclining.  "  You 
can  keep  the  tent  if  you  like,  and  I  '11  halve  the 
expense  just  the  same.  Still,  you  may  conclude 
not  to  stay,  either.  Especially,"  he  continued,  after 
an  instant's  delay,  "  if  I  tell  you  something  which 
I  believe  has  occurred  to-da}'.  I  judge  that  you  are 
seriously  interested  in  Miss  Archdale." 

The  smoker's  e3Tes  suddenly  glittered  in  the 
moonlight,  and  were  fastened  upon  him. 

"  I'm  not  the  only  one,  I  believe,  who  is  interested 
in  her,"  was  his  repry. 

"  That  may  be,  and  there  's  a  point  of  agreement 
between  us, — possibly  in  more  than  one  sense. 
But  what  I  was  going  to  sa}^  was  —  '  Ravling 
changed  his  approach  all  at  once.  "-The  discovery 
is  my  own,  but  I  should  n't  think  of  mentioning  it 
generally,  outside.  You,  I  consider,  ought  to  know, 
since  we  are  camp-fellows  and  —  friends.  Other 
wise  I  should  hold  my  peace  until  the  two  most 
concerned  —  " 

4 '  The  two  ?  "  interrupted  Whitcot.  < '  For  Heaven's 
sake,  man,  don't  be  so  long  with  your  story !  Re 
member,  you  're  not  conducting  a  trial,  and  need  n't 
work  up  to  the  point  gradually,  to  influence  the  jury." 
How  little  the  irritable  }'oung  fellow  suspected  that, 
before  long,  Ravling  would  be  conducting  a  trial,  in 
which  he  (Whitcot)  was  to  hold  a  very  important 
but  a  very  silent  and  singularly  undesirable  part ! 
"The  two?"  he  repeated.  "Somebody  besides 
Edith,  then!  Who?" 


TREACHERY.  275 

"  I  see  you  have  guessed,"  said  Ravling,  coolly. 
"  Robert  Burlen,  of  course.  I  can  state  almost  as 
a  proved  fact  that  they  became  engaged  to-day." 

"Engaged!"  a  few  white  ashes  dropped  from 
Whitcot's  pipe,  through  the  spectral  illumination  that 
hung  round  him.  He  bounded  to  his  feet.  "  What 
makes  you  think  so?" 

Probably  Ravling,  who  was  no  more  than  human, 
found  some  mitigation  of  his  own  disappointment  in 
seeing  Whitcot  hit,  too.  "  Suppose  we  go  out  and 
walk,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll  tell  you." 

The}'  donned  their  great-coats,  stepped  out  into 
the  field,  and  began  walking  up  and  down,  side  by 
side,  —  two  muffled  and  lugubrious  shapes  in  the 
moon's  pale  glare.  The  lawyer  set  forth  what  he 
had  in  his  mind. 

"Well,  I'm  satisfied,"  said  Whitcot  at  length, 
recovering  himself. 

"  How  so?  It's  too  late,  Whitcot,  for  you  to  place 
any  other  stake.  Le  jeu  est  fait,  as  they  say  in 
Homburg." 

"No.  There's  one  play  remaining  for  me,  by 
which  I  ma3T  win." 

"  I  can't  see  that,"  Ravling  rejoined,  in  a  tone  of 
displeasure.  "  One  hardly  wants  to  try  winning, 
when  two  people  have  settled  their  affairs  so  far." 

"The  engagement  has  not  been  announced," 
observed  the  engineer. 

"You  make  fine  distinctions,"  the  other  said 
dryly.  "  Too  fine  for  a  blunt  taste  like  mine." 

"  I  imagine  Miss  Archdalc  will  make  distinctions, 


276  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

too,"  was  the  confident  retort,  "  when  she  learns 
what  I  know  of  Burlen's  origin." 

"  His  origin?     Is  it  discreditable?  " 

Then  —  still  pacing  up  and  down,  two  muffled 
figures,  black  in  the  moon-glare,  and  now  assuming 
an  ominous  look  —  Whitcot  went  over  the  stoiy  with 
which  we  are  alread}'  familiar.  He  poured  out  the 
animus  of  his  interest  in  the  graduate's  secret,  with 
out  reserve.  He  broke  away  from  the  various  sub 
terfuges  with  which  he  had  at  first  deceived  himself, 
and  did  not  even  attempt  to  deceive  his  listener. 
He  violated  his  pledge  of  silence  given  to  Burlen,  for 
the  miserable  satisfaction  of  defaming  him  in  their 
common  rival's  ear. 

"  And  3'ou  propose  to  make  all  this  known  to 
Miss  Archdale,  without  Burlen's  knowledge?"  Rav- 
ling  inquired,  with  studious  neutrality. 

"  Certainly.     She  ought  to  know  it." 

"If  you  expect  my  s^-mpathy  in  such  a  perform 
ance,"  Ravling  went  on,  "I  may  as  well  tell  you. 
that  3*011  reckon  without  3'our  host.  I  advise  you  to 
abstain  from  interference." 

"I  didn't  ask  for  your  sympathy,"  Whitcot  re 
minded  him,  self-sufficiently.  u  It  strikes  me  that 
you  '11  need  it  all  for  yourself.  And,  if  you  don't 
object,  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed  now." 

The  next  day,  as  Ravling  was  making  a  circuit  of 
some  fields  above  the  barn,  he  passed  along  by  a 
stone-wall  fringed  with  }'oung  ash-trees,  at  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  where  he  could  overlook  a  secluded  swale 
beyond.  Unexpectedly  he  caught  sight  of  two  fig- 


TREACHERY.  277 

urcs,  whose  movements  made  him  pause.  The  spot 
abounded  in  golden-rod,  just  beginning  to  uncurl  its 
golden  plumes  from  the  green  stalk ;  and  Edith  had 
apparently  come  thither  to  gather  them,  for  she  held 
a  bunch  in  her  hand.  But  Whitcot  was  with  her, 
and  had  begun  to  talk  upon  some  subject  which  had 
caused  her  to  forget  the  wild  flowers. 

Ravling  could  hear  some  of  their  tones,  but  was 
not  near  enough  to  distinguish  their  words. 

The  varying  action  of  the  two  figures,  however, 
told  him  enough. 

The  lawyer  at  once  divined,  from  the  previous 
night's  conversation,  the  topic  that  engaged  them. 
When  his  eye  first  lighted  on  them,  Edith  was  fac 
ing  her  tormentor — that  was  the  description  which 
seemed  to  the  observer  most  fitting  —  with  a  glance 
of  imperious  reprimand. 

But  Whitcot,  it  seemed,  replied  coolly,  half  apolo 
getically,  and  }'ct  with  such  calculated  skill  that  the 
impassioned  woman  before  him  cast  her  eyes  down 
and  turned  slightly  away,  in  confusion.  Ravling 
could  easil}'  guess  that  the  engineer  had  thrown  some 
slur  upon  Burlcn,  and,  on  her  resenting  it,  had  asked 
with  feigned  surprise  what  could  be  the  cause  of  her 
warm  feeling. 

For  a  moment  nothing  passed  between  them  ;  but 
presently  Whitcot  began  to  speak  again.  She  list 
ened  quietly  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  quickly 
interrupted  him. 

The  engineer  resumed,  with  more  heat. 

Edith  then  appeared  to  direct  a  short,  swift  ques- 


278  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

tion  at  him  ;  to  which  he  replied  in  a  louder  voice, 
with  an  air  of  triumph,  at  the  same  time  flinging  out 
his  arm  to  point  with  great  emphasis  in  the  direction 
of  the  village.  "His  sister  is  there!"  Ravling  be 
lieved  he  could  almost  hear.  At  least,  he  was  con 
fident  that  was  what  had  been  uttered. 

At  this  Edith  raised  her  hand  to  her  head  in  a 
wild  way,  as  if  confused  or  horror-stricken.  She 
threw  away  the  golden-rod  she  had  gathered,  and 
moved  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  farm-house. 
Whitcot  pursued  her  with  a  changed  demeanor ; 
seemed  to  beg  her  to  stop ;  caught  her  hand.  She 
snatched  it  away  from  him,  and  turned  with  a  ma 
jestic  ire  that  was  appalling  even  to  the  witness  of  it 
at  this  distance.  The  young  man  in  gray  fell  back, 
and  stood  frozen  before  it.  Then  Miss  Archdale 
went  on  alone. 

"The  villain!"  murmured  Ravling,  in  helpless 
wrath,  turning  away  unperceived  and  feeling  partially 
tainted  with  guilt  at  having  even  looked  on  at  so 
cowardly  an  attack,  without  venturing  to  interfere. 
Yet  what  right  had  he  to  interfere?  The  answer  he 
made  himself  was  immediate,  that  he  had  none. 

This  evening  it  was  Edith  who  stayed  away  from 
the  tea-table,  while  Mrs.  Savland  resumed  her  place 
there.  An  unprecedented  gloom  settled  down  on  the 
little  group.  Burlen  was  distraught,  being  suddenly 
deprived  of  all  that  made  the  present  interesting ; 
and  Ravling  was  so  absorbed  by  his  indignation  with 
Whitcot  that  he  could  pay  little  attention  to  an}T- 
thing  else.  Luckily,  the  Rev.  Franklin  Bland  burst 


TREACHERY.  279 

in  upon  them  with  his  violin,  soon  after  tea,  and 
saved  them  from  funereal  silence. 

But  when  the  time  came  for  Ravling  and  Whitcot 
to  seek  their  tent,  the  lawyer  asked  his  mate  the 
meaning  of  the  dumb-show  which  he  had  witnessed. 
"  Have  you  been  telling  her  what  you  told  me  last 
night?"  he  demanded. 

4 'Of  course.  What  else  did  you  expect?"  the 
engineer  replied. 

u  I  expected  something  much  better  of  yon,"  said 
Ravling.  "  After  this,  I  shall  have  to  recede  from 
what  I  said  about  leaving  you  the  tent.  I  must  ask 
you  to  look  out  for  other  quarters  to-morrow.  It 's 
impossible  that  I  should  share  responsibilities  of  any 
kind  with  you,  hereafter,  since  you  've  chosen  to 
adopt  this  line  of  conduct." 

44  Oh,  very  well,"  returned  Whitcot.  "It's  all 
the  same  to  me.  I  '11  say  good-by  to  you  to-morrow 
morning."  But  he  was  nevertheless  aware,  too  late, 
that  in  trying  to  prejudice  Burlen's  cause  with  Edith 
he  had  hopelessly  ruined  his  own. 


280  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XXIII. 

MORTIS   FORMIDINE   ET   IRA. 

T^DITH  continuing  indisposed  the  next  clay,  Bur- 
J--'  len  sought  Mrs.  Savland's  aid  to  conjure  her 
into  visibility,  but  without  effect.  Then  he  tried 
Miss  Viola,  who  entered  into  the  situation  with  no 
lack  of  sympathy  ;  but  her  intervention  was  likewise 
of  no  avail.  As  a  last  resort,  he  had  recourse  to 
Archdale. 

The  professor,  though  much  concerned  at  the  in 
explicable  situation,  and  very  considerate  in  his  pro 
cedure  with  his  daughter,  was  unable  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter.  The  utmost  he  could  obtain 
was  a  half-hysterical  assent  from  Edith  to  the  pro 
ject  of  seeing  Btirlen  alone. 

Their  meeting  was  to  take  place  in  the  natural 
arbor  of  wild-cherry  trees,  not  far  from  the  house. 
The  candidate  was  there  betimes,  and  awaited  her 
coming. 

"What  is  it,  Edith;  what  is  this  trouble  that  has 
come  between  us  so  soon?"  he  demanded  in  ago 
nized  entreaty,  as  soon  as  she  entered  among  the 
trees.  "  Something  seems  to  have  separated  us, 
and  I  do  not  know  what." 

"  You  ought  to  know,"  she  replied.  "  Oh,  why 
did  n't  you  tell  me  ?  " 


MORTIS  FORMIDINE  ET  IRA.          281 

"I?     Tell  you  what?" 

"It  is  more  terrible  than  I  can  bear!  "  she  cried. 
"And  I  trusted  you  so  complete!}' !  It  would  all 
have  been  different  if  it  had  been  you  who  had 
spoken." 

"Edith,"  said  her  lover,  with  a  sudden  fear, 
"what  is  it  you  are  thinking  of?  My  — " 

"Oh,  your  sister!  your  sister!  your  past!  All 
that  3*011  have  been  through.  Oh,  Robert !  to  think 
that  you  so  nearly  deceived  me  !  " 

Burlen  was  aghast.  "  Can  3*011  believe  that?  "  he 
asked,  amazed.  "  What !  hasn't  your  father  told 
3'ou  ?  " 

"No;  I  wouldn't  let  him.  I  couldn't  bear  to 
talk  with  him.  lie  only  persuaded  me  to  see  3*011 
here.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"Oh,  well,  if  3*011  haven't  even  listened,  I'm 
not  so  much  astonished,"  he  answered,  though  still 
trembling  with  the  shock  that  had  come  upon  him. 
"  But  if  your  father  hasn't  told  3*011  of  all  this,  who 
has?" 

"  Mr.  Whitcot,"  she  faltered  breathlessly. 

"  Great  powers  above!  Whitcot?  I  had  almost 
forgotten  him,"  gasped  her  lover.  "  Can  it  be  that 
he  was  so  venomous  ?  " 

"Did  n't  he  tell  the  truth?  How  could  he  dare 
tell  an3'thing  else?"  she  asked,  in  return.  "An 
swer  me,  Robert." 

"  I  can't  answer  you  until  I  know  what  he  said," 
Burlen  replied. 

In  a  few  scattered  phrases  she  gave  him  the  sub 
stance  of  the  engineer's  treacherous  recital. 


232'  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Yes,"  said  Burlcn,  li  the  most  of  it  is  true  ;  but 
there  is  no  certainty  that  that  girl  he  has  told  3'ou  of 
is  my  sister." 

"But  why  should  3*011  have  left  it  for  some  one 
else  to  tell  me  all  this?"  Edith  asked,  upbraidingly. 
"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  was  going  to,  Edith." 

"  Going  to?  You  should  have  done  it !  It  is  too 
late  now." 

"  But  your  father  knew  all  about  it,"  the  young 
man  protested. 

"My  father?  Impossible!  He  would  have  told 
me  if  he  had  known." 

"  But,"  said  Burlen,  thinking  that  this  would  at 
last  make  things  elear,  "he  didn't  want  you  to 
know,  yet.  He  wanted  to  put  it  all  away  out  of 
sight.  He  even  made  me  promise  that  I  would  n't 
talk  of  it  with  you,  for  a  time." 

"  But  you  promised  me,  one  day  !  You  promised 
you  would  tell  all  about  yourself.  Don't  you  re 
member  ?  " 

"No,  indeed!  I  never  promised.  I  remember 
you  asked  me,  and  I  meant  to.  I  wanted  to,  even 
before  I  should  tell  3*011  what  I  felt  towards  you. 
But  I  never  promised,  Edith." 

With  a  woman's  vagueness  of  interpretation,  she 
had  convinced  herself  that  her  own  former  request 
was  the  same  thing  as  a  consent  on  his  part,  and  she 
would  n't  listen  to  his  explanations.  "  Oh,  Robert! 
Robert!"  she  exclaimed,  "how  terrible  this  is! 
Why  did  you  do  this?  What  could  be  gained  by  it? 
All  must  be  over,  now,  between  us  !  " 


MORTIS  FORM1DINE  ET  IRA.         283 

And,  saying  this,  she  darted  away  from  him,  leav 
ing  him  in  a  condition  bordering  on  frenzy.  He 
struck  out  from  the  cherries  in  a  different  direction, 
came  to  the  road,  walked  a  few  paces  along  it,  and 
met  Ravling. 

4 'Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  Whitcot  is  going  to 
leave  us." 

"  When?     I  was  just  coming  to  look  for  him." 

"  I  believe  he  takes  the  train  to-morrow  morning," 
said  Ravling;  "but  he's  going  down  to  the  village 
to-day,  —  very  soon,  now.  He's  going  to  stay  at 
the  hotel  over  night." 

"  Very  singular  !  "  ejaculated  Burlen.  "  Where  is 
he  now?"  There  was  a  stern,  concentrated  eager 
ness  in  his  manner  that  might  have  disturbed  the 
engineer,  had  he  witnessed  it. 

44  He's  in  the  house  at  this  moment,  I  think,"  the 
lawyer  said,  "bidding  good-by  to  the  ladies.  He's 
going  to  walk  to  Savage's,  he  said." 

Without  waiting,  Burlen  passed  down  the  road, 
took  a  short-cut  through  a  wedge-shaped  piece  of 
woods,  and  came  to  a  stand  on  the  other  side  of  it, 
close  to  the  highway,  intending  to  intercept  his  false 
friend  at  that  point. 

It  was  veiy  sultry  in  the  woods  as  he  went  through 
them,  and  every  time  that  Burlen  stopped, — as  he 
now  and  then  did,  to  see  if  anj*  one  was  coming,  — 
he  heard  his  own  heart  beating  loudly. 

He  was  watching  for  Whitcot  like  a  hunter  await 
ing  his  pre}'.  There  was  something  terrifying  to  him 
in  his  own  mood.  His  wrath  against  the  man  who 


284  IN  THE   DISTANCE. 

had  so  unjustly  produced  a  misunderstanding  between 
Edith  and  himself  was  tempestuous  ;  it  kept  burst 
ing  upon  him  in  one  wave  after  another.  He  tried 
to  resist  it,  but  he  could  not  force  himself  to  turn 
back. 

How  could  he  let  so  contemptible  a  creature  go 
without  some  scathing  reprimand,  some  brief  but 
absolute  condemnation?  To  confront  him  with  his 
own  iniquities,  to  grind  him  down  with  the  sense  of 
shame  that  was  his  due,  and  then  to  leave  him,  — 
this,  Burlcn  felt,  would  barely  satisfy  the  demand  of 
justice  ;  and  this  he  must  have. 

Before  long  he  saw  the  figure  he  awaited  moving 
down  the  road,  passing  tree  after  tree  on  the  other 
side  of  the  narrow,  wedge-shaped  wood,  and  ap 
proaching  around  the  bend  that  would  soon  bring 
him  to  this  point.  AVhitcot  trod  buoyantly,  and 
whistled  as  if  nothing  weighed  upon  his  conscience. 
Within  two  minutes  he  came  full  upon  Burlen,  and 
stopped  short  in  surprise.  Almost  immediately  he 
put  himself  in  motion  again  ;  but  he  did  not  resume 
his  soft  whistling. 

"  You're  just  in  time  to  bid  me  good-bj',"  he  said, 
affecting  indifference. 

4 'Yes.  I  came  here  for  the  purpose  of  meeting 
you,"  Burlen  returned,  with  ill-concealed  rage. 

Whitcot  forced  a  laugh.  "Don't  prolong  the 
agony  of  our  parting  too  far,"  he  admonished  the 
other. 

"I'll  walk  with  you  a  little  way,"  Burlcn  ob 
served  ;  thinking  that  he  would  go  down  to  the 


MORTIS  FORMIDINE  ET  IRA.         285 

Contoocook,  or  to  his  favorite  bathing-place  under 
the  ash-tree,  in  the  woods,  after  he  had  finished  the 
business  of  moral  chastisement. 

"  How  good  of  you  !  "  the  engineer  exclaimed,  with 
latent  sarcasm.  He  took  out  his  brier-pipe  and  be 
gan  smoking  as  the}-  started  off. 
'  But  the  candidate  gave  him  short  respite,  and 
plunged  into  the  midst  of  his  reproaches.  Their 
voices  grew  louder  and  louder  in  altercation,  until 
finally  the  two  came  to  a  stop  beside  a  wall  of  thick 
hemlocks  that  screened  the  road,  and  stood  there 
hotly  flinging  charge  and  retort  to  and  fro. 

A  long,  deep  roll  of  thunder  boomed  from  the 
neighborhood  of  Monadnoc,  and  some  crows  among 
the  trees  close  by  them  started  up  into  the  air  with 
harsh  and  awful  cries  that  rang  through  the  dead, 
simmering  stillness  of  the  afternoon  like  the  shrieks 
of  some  creature  smitten  with  a  mortal  wound.  But 
the  angry  men  did  not  observe  these  interruptions. 
Neither  did  they  notice  Marshall  Stubbs,  who,  hav- 
ino"  come  out  to  view  some  uncut  hay  on  a  piece  of 
land  in  that  vicinity,  had  been  drawn  on  by  the 
noise  of  the  dispute  that  was  proceeding  in  the  road, 
at  the  other  side  of  the  hemlocks  from  him.  Moving 
stealthily  up  to  the  barrier  of  green-fringed  boughs, 
he  thrust  his  hard  countenance  astutely  forward  as 
far  as  prudence  would  allow,  and  listened.  His 
tightly  stretched  lips  were  pursed  up  in  a  curt  smile 
of  evil  satisfaction  as  soon  as  he  recognized  Bur- 
len,  whose  passionate  bearing  at  that  moment  was 
greatly  to  his  disadvantage.  Stubbs  trusted  that 


286  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

there  would  be  a  set-to  with  fists,  and  began  laying 
bets  with  himself  on  the  result ;  odds  greatly  in 
favor  of  Whitcot. 

"And  why,"  rejoined  that  personage,  to  some  re 
newed  charge  of  Burlen's, —  "  why  should  n't  I  give 
her  a  warning,  if  I  thought  you  were  n't  the  sort  of 
person  you  assumed  to  be?" 

"  You  a  judge  in  such  matters!"  cried  Burlen, 
derisively.  "  That 's  an  audacious  notion.  It's  my 
opinion  that  if  yon  were  known  for  what  you  really 
are,  you  would  be  banished  from  society.  I,  for 
one,  wish  you  might  be  obliterated,  —  swept  out  of 
this  life  for  good  and  all!" 

"  Suppose  you  try  obliterating  me,"  Whitcot 
bitingly  returned,  "  with  your  blacksmith's  arm  ! 
That's  about  what  you're  fitted  for." 

Both  the  wranglers  were  beside  themselves,  and 
Stubbs  made  sure  that  at  this  climax  Burlen  must 
square  off  and  begin  the  physical  combat  which  he 
expected.  The  young  theologian,  it  is  true,  did 
clench  his  fists  as  if  to  strike  ;  but  instead  of  cany- 
ing  out  that  movement  he  bit  his  lips,  and  by  a  pro 
digious  strain  held  himself  back.  Then  he  veered 
swiftly  about  and  began  to  move  up  the  road  whence 
he  had  come  ;  forgetting,  in  the  blind  struggle  with  his 
half-insane  passion,  his  purpose  of  going  to  bathe. 

The  engineer,  however,  launched  one  more  shaft 
at  him.  "  Aha  !  "  he  breathed  in  a  low,  penetrating 
tone,  but  as  if  he  were  registering  a  discovery  in  re 
spect  of  some  lower  order  of  animal:  "A  coward, 
too  !  " 


MORTIS  FORMIDINE  ET  IRA.         287 

Having  said  this,  he  also  turned  to  go  upon  his 
way ;  but,  instead  of  following  the  road,  he  obeyed 
an  impulse  to  make  a  short-cut  through  the  woods. 

As  that  final  taunt  reached  Biuien,  he  Hung  his 
arms  up  in  uncontrollable  excitement.  Seemingly, 
he  had  been  goaded  beyond  his  endurance.  Remem 
bering  at  the  same  instant  that  he  had  intended 
to  go  to  the  river,  and  that  he  was  unfit  to  appear 
among  his  friends  while  overwrought  with  this  fury, 
he  reversed  his  steps,  came  back,  and  —  though  his 
antagonist  had  disappeared  among  the  trees  —  strode 
down  the  road,  in  the  same  general  direction  that 
the  engineer  had  taken. 

"That  means  big  mischief!"  said  Stubbs,  aloud, 
relieved  from  precaution  by  their  departure.  "I'd 
give  half  a  dime  to  see  the  end  of  it."  His  accus 
tomed  penuriousness  did  not  forsake  him,  even  at 
this  crisis. 

The  day  was  lengthening,  and  the  air  grew  darker 
still  from  the  storm-clouds  that  were  drifting  over 
Monadnoc.  Whitcot  walked  faster.  There  was 
something  exceedingly  distasteful  in  the  situation  : 
the  quarrel  with  Burlen,  added  to  a  sense  of  the  fatal 
misstep  he  himself  had  made,  must  have  thrown  his 
nerves  off  their  balance. 

He  looked  around  several  times,  to  see  if  Robert 
was  following  him.  Was  there  not  a  sound  of  foot 
steps,  as  on  that  well-remembered  first  evening,  be 
hind  him  or  off  there  at  the  side,  behind  the  under 
brush?  Stand  still,  Whitcot !  Listen! 


288  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

No ;  nothing  but  the  foolish  antics  of  the  wind. 
It  has  come  suddenly,  and  is  blundering  through  the 
wood,  rattling  a  few  dry  boughs,  and  picking  up  the 
dead  leaves  in  loose  handfuls  to  throw  them  after 
the  lonely  walker  in  a  feeble  kind  of  mimic  wrath. 
But  see  how  it  stirs  the  branches  above  him,  causing 
them  to  nudge  one  another  with  uncouth  mj'stery ! 
One  long,  cloaked  arm  seems  to  take  hold  of  an 
other  long,  cloaked  arm,  and  all  beckon  and  point 
together  as  if  moved  by  the  presence,  in  the  secret 
places  here,  of  some  dreadful,  shadow}'  thing  not  to 
be  named.  Whitcot !  Whitcot !  Don't  you  sec  that 
it  is  time  to  get  back  to  the  road  ? 

The  wind  comes  with  another  rush,  and  sweeps 
the  leaves  up  higher  than  before.  Now  it  appears 
to  be  playing  with  some  sardonic  purpose  of  over 
whelming  and  covering  up  and  burying  awaj'  the 
lusty  youth  who  steps  forward  so  boldly  against  it. 
Dead  men  have  been  wrapped  before  now,  Whitcot, 
in  this  same  winding-sheet  of  dead  leaves,  the  dust 
of  vanished  summers.  Step  3'ou  never  so  boldly, 
you  must  step  into  your  shroud  at  last.  You  know 
.  not  where  or  when  that  will  be.  Here  are  the  winds 
and  the  leaves  all  ready  to  cover  you  now,  and  the 
fading  gleams  of  evening  shall  light  you  to  your  final 
rest,  if  you  choose  to  take  it  here  ! 

In  the  morbid  twilight  thickening  through  the 
woods,  shadows  and  changing  shapes  assemble  as  if 
to  enact  some  gloomy  rite.  Yet  lias  not  our  traveller 
often  passed  such  spots  as  this,  and  with  the  same 
cuixUing  forebodings  that  vex  him  at  this  moment? 


MORTIS  FORM  I  DINE  ET  IRA.          289 

But  the  obstacles  always  yielded,  the  fear  passed 
away ;  he  came  out  warm  and  safe,  and  the  forebod 
ings  proved  meaningless.  Why,  then,  dread  any 
thing  to-day? 

Cut  it  is  baffling,  nevertheless,  to  have  the  wind 
keep  up  this  rough  game  of  pelting  him  with  leaves  ; 
whirling  them  around  his  head,  driving  them  into 
his  very  face ;  waiting  for  him  and  leaping  upon  him 
suddenly,  or  clutching  at  him  from  behind.  Accord 
ing  to  its  fancy  it  lifts  the  lifeless  leaves  into  coils  or 
spirals,  and  gives  them  —  in  the  increasing  sylvan 
dusk  —  a  rude,  fragmentary  resemblance  to  divers 
animals  that  rise  up  fiercely  for  a  moment  or  two 
and  battle  with  each  other  or  chase  the  }roung  man's 
form,  then  fade  away  into  nothing  or  sweep  off  in 
full  cry  before  the  blast  and  come  rounding  back  in 
a  savage  troop.  Have  3-011  never  seen  such  shapes 
loosely  suggested  by  blowing  leaf-heaps  ?  Creatures 
of  mouth  and  claw  they  seem, — dogs,  wolves, 
tigers, — or  others  that  rear  themselves  higher  and 
strive  to  take  the  shape  of  man.  Strange  horror ! 
To  one  under  the  influence  of  such  fancied  likenesses, 
the  most  terror-striking  of  all  these  staggering,  wav 
ering  bodies  are  those  that  make  one  think  of  human 
beings. 

Ah,  great  Heaven !  What  is  this  that  comes  at 
last  with  fell  purpose  through  the  whirling  drift?  It 
is  a  man ! 

There   is   horror   in  the  wood.     Were  those   the 
clear  gray  eyes  filled  with  stilly  fire,  that  for  an  in 
stant  faced  the  victim  before  the  struggle  ?     Or  were 
19 


290  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

they  the  same  that  had  lately  gleamed  upon  him  in 
a  fury  of  reproach?  .  .  .  What  is  it  that  tightens 
round  his  neck?  Are  the  waters  of  the  black  river- 
down  in  the  valley  rising,  rising,  and  choking  him? 
.  .  .  What  is  happening?  Why  does  it  all  seem  so 
strange  and  far  off,  as  if  it  were  being  done  to  some 
one  else? 

Is  it  an  actual  deed,  or  something  that  some  one 
has  been  telling  about?  .  .  .  What  pity  there  will 
be  for  the  poor  senseless  body,  when  it  is  all  over! 
.  .  .  There  was,  in  fact,  a  murder  committed  some 
where  in  the  neighborhood  here,  long  ago,  it  is 
said. 

Look  !  One  reeling  glimpse  of  an  opening  through 
the  trees,  and  Monadnoc  stamped  dimly  on  the  sky 
that  fast  recedes,  —  the  last  glimpse  of  earth  to  a 
man  who  is  sinking  into  the  deep,  incurable  blind 
ness  of  death  !  That  is  just  as  Whitcot  had  fancied 
it  must  have  been  with  the  man  he  had  heard  of,  in 
that  same  murder  which  was  done  hereabout,  in  one 
of  these  darksome  hollows. 

But  if  it  is  nothing  more  than  fancy  now,  why 
does  that  figure  in  the  gray  coat  —  so  like  the  soli 
tary  walker  whose  feet  lately  rustled  through  the 
silence  —  lie  there  with  its  face  in  the  leaves,  motion 
less  as  a  dead  limb  fallen  from  one  of  the  trees? 


DISCOVERY  OF  A   MURDER.  291 


XXIV. 

DISCOVERY   OF   A    MURDER. 

IT  is  Epenetus  B.  Savage  —  the  man  with  a  face 
like  a  disturbed  shadow  —  who  comes  skimming 
along  in  his  restless,  speculative  buggy,  before  all 
the  folks  at  Pride's  are  quite  dressed,  the  next  morn 
ing.  And  it  is  Epenetus  B.'s  dog  that  runs  beside 
the  buggy,  with  a  red  tongue  hanging  out  of  his  black 
jaws,  but  suddenly  pauses,  sniffs,  utters  a  weak  howl, 
and  darts  into  the  woods  beside  the  road. 

The  preoccupied  man  in  the  light  vehicle  is  borne 
along  without  noticing  this  abrupt  canine  excursion  ; 
but  his  horse  has  not  trotted  many  yards  before  a 
piteous,  barking  cry,  —  a  strange,  inarticulate  call 
for  human  aid,  though  proceeding  from  no  human 
throat,  —  floats  out  from  among  the  trees,  and  causes 
the  business-minded  Savage  to  draw  rein  at  once. 

A  glance  back ;  the  cry  repeated  ;  rapid  move 
ments  on  the  part  of  Epenetus  ;  a  scraping  of  the 
wheel  against  the  side  of  the  buggy  in  making  a  short 
turn.  Then  the  light  structure  .shoots  back  over  the 
course  it  has  just  traversed.  The  dog  tears  his  way 
through  the  bushes,  out  to  the  road  ;  stands  waiting  ; 
sees  that  help  is  coming,  and  then  disappears  again 
madly.  No  dela}*,  now,  on  the  part  of  Epenetus. 
The  horse  is  tethered  to  an  iron  weight,  which  his 


292  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

master  throws  out  like  an  anchor  to  keep  him  from 
drifting ;  and  the  driver  himself  plunges  through  the 
underbrush,  after  the  dog. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  comes  out  again,  wet  with 
dew,  and  showing  a  face  more  like  a  disturbed 
shadow  than  it  ever  was  before  or  is  likely  to  be 
again,  hoists  the  anchor-weight,  and  whips  up  furi 
ously  for  Pride's.  His  shaggy  attendant,  entirely 
forgotten,  though  the  immediate  cause  of  this  ex 
citement,  rushes  along  also  in  the  dust  of  the  flying 
wheels.  Epenetus  B.  Savage  and  Epenetus  B.  Dog 
will  be  mentioned  in  the  newspapers  as  having  been 
the  first  to  make  an  appalling  discovery. 

They  arrive  at  the  form,  breathless, —the  man 
trembling,  and  the  buggy  under  him  quivering,  too. 
How  redly  the  sunbeams,  through  this  morning  haze, 
strike  upon  the  dog,  splashing  him  all  over  with  ter 
rifying  stains  as  of  blood  ! 

Pride  is  called  for,  taken  out  to  the  gate,  is  whis 
pered  with,  and  starts  back  as  if  he  had  been  struck  ; 
then  casts  a  terrified  look  towards  the  house,  as  if  he 
would  summon  the  other  occupants.  This  movement 
is  checked  by  hurried  remonstrance  from  Epenetus, 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  why.  He  is  bewildered  ; 
wants  to  gain  time :  it  seems  to  him  as  if  it  ought  not 
to  be  spoken  of  just  yet.  But  Timothy  comes  forth 
unbidden,  and  is  told.  No  one  can  keep  this  awful 
secret.  If  you  approach  those  who  know  it,  you 
feel  a  chill,  —  a  vague  warning  radiated  from  them. 
It  is  in  the  air.  One  of  these  three  at  the  gate  must 
go  up  to  the  house  ;  but  if  any  one  goes  it  will  become 


DISCOVERY  OF  A   MURDER.  293 

known,  —  this  secret  which  no  one  can  keep  except 
the  dead  man  and  that  other,  worse  than  dead, 
who  knows  how  the  crime  befell.  It  will  become 
known?  Well,  what  then?  We  three  here  at  the  gate 
cannot  long  keep  it  to  ourselves,  or  we  shall  go  mad  ; 
perhaps  —  who  knows?  —  fall  upon  each  other  and 
wreak  some  fresh  crime,  since  humanity  is  capable  of 
such  things.  The  only  safety,  the  only  wisdom,  is 
to  spread  the  news,  to  scatter  the  horrible  deed  to  all 
the  winds,  so  that  it  ma}'  not  creep,  slowly  corrupting 
us,  through  our  frozen  veins. 

So  from  that  knot  of  three  at  the  gate,  with  the 
restive,  red-splashed  dog  running  continually  about 
them,  the  story  spreads  to  the  others  in  the  house. 

"Murdered!" 

That  word  went  up  from  Burlen  with  a  terror  in 
the  sound  different  from  any  other  voice  among  them. 
"No,  no!  It"  cannot  be!  Whitcot  murdered,  and 
it  was  I  who  —  oh,  this  is  too  frightful !  " 

No  one  gave  special  heed  to  his  exclamation  just 
then.  All  was  confusion  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  measures  were  taken  for  lodging  information  at 
the  village,  for  sending  word  to  Whitcot' s  father,  and 
organizing  a  search  for  the  murderer.  Not  until  Sav 
age  had  driven  away  again,  and  Timothy  had  gone 
with  his  father  to  call  the  nearest  neighbors,  did 
Burlen's  whereabouts  occur  as  a  question  of  impor 
tance.  Ravling  was  consulting  with  Archdale,  hop 
ing  to  hit  upon  some  fragment  of  evidence.  "  Who 
saw  Whitcot  last?"  he  inquired,  suddenly. 

"  I  don't  know.     Let  me  see,"  said  the  professor 


294  JN  THE  DISTANCE. 

slowly.  "He  came  into  the  house  to  say  good-by, 
and  then  —  why,  Robert  must  have  seen  him  after 
that.  In  fact,  he  told  me  so.  He  was  very  much 
depressed  last  night,  and  finally  told  me  that  he  had 
had  a  bitter  altercation  with  Whitcot,  which  grieved 

i    •  ««  O 

him. 

"  Altercation  !  "  The  lawyer  looked  at  Archdale, 
with  a  new  apprehension  in  his  eyes.  Archdale 
caught  the  alarm,  and  for  an  instant  they  regarded 
each  other  in  silence. 

"  But  I  can't  think  that  has  any  significance,"  said 
the  Doctor,  at  length. 

"Perhaps  not,"  Ravling  assented  hastily,  as  if 
fearing  to  dwell  on  the  point.  "  But  probably  Bur- 
len  could  throw  light  on  Whitcot's  last  movements. 
And  then  it  is  important,  —  we  must  think  of  the 
circumstances,  you  know,  —  it 's  important  for  him 
to  explain  his  own  position  at  once.  Did  you  notice 
what  he  said  just  now,  when  Savage  told  us? 
''Whitcot  murdered,  and  I — it  was  7 — '  I  don't 
know  exactly,  but  it  was  something  like  that." 

Archdale  was  aghast.  Then  he  rose,  with  one 
hand  on  the  table,  and  demanded  sternly:  "What 
do  you  mean  to  insinuate,  Mr.  Ravling?  That  it  is 
possible  —  " 

"Possible  that  suspicion  may  fall  on  him,"  an 
swered  the  lawyer,  gravely,  with  an  unflinching  gaze. 
"It  is  simply  prudence  and  friendship  to  recognize 
that.  Where  is  Burlen?  Let  us  see  him  at  once." 

They  turned  their  attention  immediately  to  finding 
their  friend  ;  but  Burlen  had  disappeared,  and  no 
one  knew  where  he  had  gone  to. 


DISCOVERY  OF  A  MURDER.  295 

"This  is  very  serious,"  Ravling  observed,  as  they 
came  back  and  entered  the  dining-room  for  a  quiet 
consultation.  "He  may  have  gone  to  the  village. 
I  hope  so.  It  may  make  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
to  be  out  of  the  way  just  now.  Mind  you,  I  say 
nothing  more  :  it  would  hardly  be  possible  for  me  to 
believe  more.  But  I  am  anxious  for  him.  Would 
you  object  to  telling  me  what  you  know  of  his  quar 
rel  with  Whitcot?" 

"  I  can  tell  you  precisely  the  cause  of  it,  but  noth 
ing  further.  He  would  not  talk  of  it  last  night ;  he 
was  so  much  pained  at  having  given  way  to  anger, 
though  it  was  fully  justified.  That  seemed  to  be 
his  main  concern."  And  then  Doctor  Archdale 
went  on  to  tell  of  Whitcot's  treacherous  disclosure 
to  Edith,  and  the  misunderstanding  that  had  ensued 
between  Edith  and  Burlen. 

"Ah,  that's  what  I  supposed,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"I  knew  enough  of  it  to  make  me  suspect  just 
that." 

"  But  Edith  already  repents  of  her  haste  in  re 
proaching  the  poor  fellow,"  continued  the  other. 
"  Whitcot,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  led  her  to  believe  that 
Robert  knew  his  unfortunate  sister  to  be  in  the  vil 
lage,  and  was  deliberately  resolved  to  ignore  her 
existence.  That  was  what  shocked  her  most ;  and 
in  the  general  excitement  of  the  shock  she  was  in 
clined  to  upbraid  him  altogether  for  having  kept  back 
so  much  of  his  personal  histoiy.  But  she  saw  her 
error  last  night.  There  was  no  opportunit}r  of  an 
explanation  with  Robert :  you  recall  how  despondent 


296  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

and  abstracted  he  was,  and  how  soon  he  went  to  his 
room.  Edith  came  to  me  and  explained  everything 
before  we  retired,  and  I  was  to  prepare  Robert  for 
their  reconciliation  this  morning.  And  now  every 
thing  is  thrown  out.  —  But  he  must  be  about  the 
house  somewhere.  Suppose  we  look  again."  For  a 
moment  Ravling  lost  his  studied  calm.  "  Poor  Miss 
Archdale  !  "  he  murmured,  his  head  drooping  upon 
his  upraised  arm.  "  If  there  were  anything  I  could 
do !  I  hope  no  greater  evil  is  in  store." 

"  Come,"  said  Archdale,  "  we  must  look  again  for 
Robert." 

As  they  rose,  the  door  opened,  and  Edith  stood 
on  the  threshold,  very  pale,  but  strenuously  com 
manding  herself.  "Is  —  is  there  airything  more ? " 
she  asked.  "  Have  they  found  him?" 

' '  Whom  ?  "  asked  her  father. 

"The"  —  she  shuddered,  and  stopped.  "Have 
the}'  found  out  whether  it  was  accident,  or  —  oh,  tell 
me  something!  How  is  it,  Mr.  Ravling?" 

The  Iaw3'er  had  grown  pale,  too.  "There  is 
nothing  more  to  tell,"  he  answered.  "Leave  it  to 
us,  Miss  Archdale,  I  beg  3-011." 

But  her  father  was  less  prudent.  "  Have  }'ou 
seen  Robert?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  she.  Then,  with  a  pang  of  nervous 
fright  trembling  through  her  features:  "Why? 
Wiry?"  she  demanded.  "Have  you  been  looking 
for  him?" 

"  We  wanted  to  consult  him,"  Ravling  said,  shoot 
ing  towards  the  older  man  a  glance  of  reprimand 
and  warning  that  struck  him  like  an  arrow. 


DISCOVERY  OF  A   MURDER.  297 

11  Yes,  dear;  to  consult  him,"  Archclale  faltered. 
"Go  to  your  aunt,  Edith.  We  are  busy,  and  you 
ladies  must  keep  together." 

The  second  search  was  as  fruitless  as  the  first; 
but  breakfast  was  announced,  and  the  two  gentlemen 
hoped  that  this  would  bring  Burlen.  The  ladies 
took  the  meal  upstairs  :  Ravling  and  Archdale  sat 
down  alone.  They  tasted  their  coffee  and  tried  to 
eat  something,  but  could  no  longer  speak.  At  last, 
a  loud  knock  at  the  door  roused  them  again.  Arch- 
dale's  first  thought  was  that  Burlen  had  come,  but 
he  saw,  in  another  moment,  that  this  could  not  be : 
the  candidate  would  have  entered  without  such  pre 
liminary.  In  fact,  the  knock  preceded  the  entrance 
of  Sheriff  Brown.  Burlen  had  not  been  seen  in  the 
village,  but  on  the  arrival  of  the  news  brought  by 
Epenetus  B.  Savage  and  his  dog,  Marshall  Stubbs 
had  made  known  the  circumstance  of  the  quarrel 
witnessed  by  him,  and  had  made  a  complaint  under 
oath  before  a  justice  of  the  peace.  As  a  result  of 
this,  Major  Brown  had  been  armed  with  a  warrant 
for  the  arrest  of  Burlen,  and  had  come  now  to  search 
Pride's  house. 

The  object  of  this  visit  was  concealed  from  the 
ladies  by  the  Major's  orotund  statement  that  the  can 
didate  for  the  ministry  was  wanted  as  a  witness  to 
assist  in  giving  evidence,  and  that  they  were  obliged 
to  go  through  the  form  of  looking  for  him  because 
he  did  not  happen  to  be  at  hand.  But  even  the 
power  of  the  Sheriff  was  unavailing.  Burlen  re 
mained  mj'steriously  out  of  sight.  Major  Brown 


298  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

and  his  posse  retreated  ;  Archdale  and  Ravling  went 
down  to  the  village,  and  returned.  The  day  wore  on  ; 
evening  approached.  Still  the  young  clerical  candi 
date  did  not  make  his  appearance. 

Then   there  began  to  steal  over  Edith  a  mist  of 
vague  but  awful  apprehension,  in  which  she  could  as 
yet  make  out  nothing  decisive.     Where  was  Robert? 
Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had  finally  gone  to  the 
village  and  was  detained  there  by  his  efforts  to  assist 
justice ;    or   had    something   dreadful    happened    to 
him  also?     It  must   be  dangerous  to  be  wandering 
about  the   country  now,   since   Wliiteot  could  meet 
with  such  a  fate  so  near  Savage's.     And  then  gradu 
ally  that  other  danger  began  to  assert  itself,  of  which 
the  rest  were  secretly  thinking,  —  the  danger  that  a 
long,   unexplained  absence  just  at  this  time   would 
bring,  since  it  was  known  that  he  had  had  serious 
cause  for  disagreement  with  Whitcot  the  day  before. 
It  was  only  at  moments  that  this  occurred  to  her, 
and  even  then  it  was  no  more  than  the  shadow  of  a 
threatening  possibility  ;  but  when  at  last  the  inmates 
of  the  farm-house  parted  for  the  night,  and  she  found 
herself  alone   with   the  suspense   as  to  Burlen   still 
unbroken,  a  dread  more  deadly  than  any  hitherto  — 
commencing   in   one  small   spot  in  her  mind  —  ex 
tended  its  sway  like  sand  blown  by  the  wind,  until 
her  whole    soul   grew    parched    and    weary  with  it. 
Since  she  had  given  the  young  preacher  her  promise 
on  the  mountain-height,  her  hours  of  happy  repose, 
exquisite  though  they  were,  had  been  few.     Whit- 
cot's  attack  had  subjected  her  faith  in  Robert  to  an 


DISCOVERY  OF  A  MURDER.          299 

early  and  exacting  strain,  under  which  she  had  given 
way,  though  only  for  a  short  time.  But  now  it  was 
forced  to  undergo  an  ordeal  a  thousand  times  more 
difficult  than  that.  In  this  new  trial  of  her  faith  and 
fortitude  there  was  a  clutch  like  that  of  a  preordained 
destiny.  Were  they  doomed  to  be  put  asunder  by 
forces  beyond  her  control?  Perhaps  she  had  been 
right,  that  day  in  church,  when  she  had  thought  of 
him  as  standing  in  a  natural  isolation,  far  off  from 
her.  And  was  she  not  bearing  this  trial  now  all 
alone,  awa}r  from  him,  without  his  aid?  But  he, 
too,  was  alone  ;  he  had  left  her  when  she  had  spoken 
words  of  reproach  and  anger :  how  could  she  tell 
that  he  was  not  suffering  even  more  than  she?  With 
this,  her  mind  reverted  to  his  past  years,  during 
which  he  had  gone  through  so  much  in  solitude  ;  and 
she  resolved  that  she  would  be  strong,  as  he  had 
been.  But  her  anxiety  was  too  great  to  bear  with 
out  aid  :  she  turned  to  God.  "  Oh,  is  there  no  help 
in  3'our  glorious  sky?"  she  murmured,  sitting  like  a 
ghost  in  her  dusky  room.  "  Is  there  no  answer  out 
there  in  the  breezy  night?" 

She  gazed  out  into  the  moonlight,  but  found  no 
consolation.  The  maple  that  rose  thick-foliaged  be 
side  her  window,  jutting  masses  of  grim,  greenish- 
white  leaves  out  of  the  deep  shadow  at  its  black 
core,  waved  them  with  heavy  hands  in  the  slow 
wind  ;  and  even  as  these  swaying  hands  tossed  up 
and  down,  the}'  changed  into  the  aspect  of  strange, 
dead  faces  that  mocked  her. 


300  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

Meanwhile,  the  two  gentlemen  of  the  household 
had  been  weighted  with  a  fresh  fact  of  bad  omen, 
imparted  Iry  Mrs.  Pride ;  which  was,  that,  on  his 
return  to  the  farm  the  preceding  afternoon,  Burlen 
entered  b}'  the  back  way  and  passed  through  the 
kitchen,  with  his  clothes  dripping.  This  he  ex 
plained  by  saying  that  he  had  been  walking  care 
lessly,  and  had  slipped  into  the  river.  An  accident 
like  that  would  have  no  special  significance  ordi 
narily  ;  but  it  seemed  to  place  Burlen  near  the  spot 
where  Whitcot  had  been  found,  and  there  would  be 
those  who  would  imagine  reasons  for  his  inventing 
such  a  story  to  account  for  his  being  drenched  with 
water.  Thinking  of  these  things,  Archdale  hardly 
slept ;  and  Ravling  found  himself  incapable  of 
taking  any  rest  in  the  tent  which  he  had  so  lately 
shared  with  the  murdered  man.  He  tried  to  read ; 
lie  walked  up  and  down  the  road,  and  stared  towards 
the  village  as  if  its  one  lingering  light  could  disclose 
to  him  what  was  going  on  there.  He  sat  still  and 
listened  for  the  tramp  of  hoofs,  some  new  arrival 
bringing  information.  But  the  incessant,  sad  cry  of 
the  crickets  alone  responded  to  his  listening. 

There  were  others  who  kept  vigil  that  night ;  and 
some  of  the  watchers  at  Savage's  at  last  descried 
the  light  of  a  small  fire  on  some  high  ground  in 
the  direction  of  Monadnoc.  It  might  be  an  inno 
cent  fire,  but  there  was  a  chance  that  guilt}'  hands 
had  kindled  it  for  comfort  in  the  chill  night,  until 
flight  should  be  resumed.  Little  time  was  lost  in 


DISCOVERY  OF  A   MURDER.  301 

sending  a  determined  band  towards  the  twinkling 

spot. 

At  that  moment  a  man  sat  beside  the  fire,  which 
had  been  built  in  a  small  open  space  on  the  natural 
hearth  of  a  smooth  rocky  slab.  The  flames  sprang 
nimbly  up  between  the  sticks  and  made  an  agreeable 
but  wild  and  lonely  glow  amid  the  silent  surround 
ings.  It  burnished  the  thick  fringe  of  ferns  below 
the  rock  into  vivid  visibility,  struck  here  and  there 
upon  branches  of  underbrush  that  stuck  up  from  the 
ground  at  accidental  angles,  suggesting  eager  figures 
just  risen  up  to  look  ;  and  farther  off  it  darted  lines 
of  light  across  the  boles  of  larger  trees.  These  spots 
of  reflected  fire  all  around  on  rock,  tree,  and  fern 
became  like  so  many  flaming  eyes  concentrated  upon 
the  low  blaze  of  the  figure  bending  over  it.  Sur 
rounded  by  them,  and  with  the  crackling  fagots  cast 
ing  up  their  illumination  into  his  face,  there  was  no 
possibility  on  the  man's  part  of  escaping  identifi 
cation,  should  his  pursuers  come  this  way. 

The  face  thus  revealed,  though  sad  and  haggard, 
was  that  of  Robert  Burlen. 

On  hearing  the  tragic  tidings  brought  that  morn 
ing,  he  had  been  struck  with  an  overpowering  re 
morse,  and  had  felt  the  necessity  of  getting  out  of 
sight.  Taking  his  hat,  he  had  gone  silently  out  and 
made  his  way  into  the  nearest  woods,  wandering  on 
without  noticing  in  what  direction  chance  bore  him. 
How  swiftly  his  unhallowed  wish  for  AYhitcot's  ex 
tinction,  uttered  in  the  insanity  of  his  first  resent 
ment,  had  been  fulfilled !  That  was  what  he  was 


302  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

thinking :  and  he  presented  it  to  himself  in  many 
ways,  torturing  himself  with  a  sense  of  wickedness 
that  seemed  now  by  this  sudden  and  violent  death  to 
have  had  the  stamp  of  permanence  set  upon  it. 

The  fresh,  peaceful  quiet  of  the  woods  began  at 
length  to  relieve  him  ;  when  suddenly  an  ugly  appre 
hension  that  he  might  come  unawares  upon  the  mur 
dered  man  beset  him.  He  shrank  from  the  thought 
like  one  guilty,  and  looked  about  him  to  see  where 
he  was,  so  that  he  might  retrace  his  steps.  He  had 
been  walking  blindly  for  a  good  while,  getting  always 
deeper  into  the  growth,  and  forcing  aside  the  hinder 
ing  thickets  wherever  there  was  no  passage  around 
them  ;  so  that  he  had  no  conception  of  his  present 
locality.  Several  narrow  avenues  opened  among  the 
trees,  and  he  made  an  attempt  to  go  back  along  the 
one  he  had  just  arrived  by ;  but  everything  was  un 
familiar,  —  new  windings  radiated  everywhere.  The 
idea  that  he  could  be  lost  seemed  preposterous  ;  but 
after  he  had  wandered  for  hours  seeking  in  vain  for 
some  escape,  he  could  no  longer  deceive  himself. 

At  first,  the  excitement  of  trying  to  find  his  way 
nerved  him  and  diverted  his  mind  ;  but  when  the 
attempt  began  to  appear  hopeless,  the  gloom  of  his 
regrets  came  back  and  bore  him  down.  He  grew 
faint  for  want  of  food,  and  succeeded  only  after  much 
effort  in  finding  a  few  late  berries.  He  sank  down 
and  waited,  in  exhaustion.  Then  by  degrees  some 
clusters  of  club-moss  pricking  up  through  the  dark 
earth  at  his  side  interested  him.  He  studied  their 
structure,  and  fell  to  wondering  at  their  perfection. 


DISCOVERY  OF  A   MURDER.  303 

From  these  he  passed  to  the  leaves  nearest  him  ;  the 
marvel  and  beauty  of  their  delicate  shaping  and  vein- 
ing  grew  upon  him.  He  watched  closely  the  small 
est  insects  that  travelled  through  the  dead  rubbish  of 
the  wood  within  a  few  feet  around  his  resting-place. 
Crawling  on  his  knees  and  observing  their  adven 
tures  among  the  sticks,  straws,  weeds,  and  debris, 
he  came  to  feel  that  the  petty  area  he  was  examining 
was  almost  a  world  complete  in  itself.  All  at  once 
he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  cry.  His  thoughts,  for 
a  time  absorbed  in  these  tiny  insect-mazes,  had 
abruptly  reverted  to  the  crime  made  known  that 
morning. 

The  interval  of  idle  companionship  with  small 
natural  things,  however,  had  put  fresh  vigor  into 
him.  To  be  lost  in  this  region  was  no  trilling  peril, 
and  the  risk  would  increase  with  every  additional 
hour  of  fasting  and  fatigue.  He  pushed  on  once 
more,  and  this  time  succeeded  in  getting  upon  con 
stantly  rising  ground  ;  which  was  so  far  an  advan 
tage.  But  the  vaulted  wood  kept  growing  darker. 
He  attributed  this  to  storm-clouds :  the  air,  however, 
became  cooler  and  the  dusk  more  pervasive,  until  he 
caught  sight  of  a  star  beyond  the  boughs,  sparkling 
premature!}',  and  knew  that  evening  had  arrived. 

Fearing  to  advance  further,  he  sat  down,  heaped 
dr}'  leaves  about  him  for  warmth,  and  waited.  He 
was  just  on  the  edge  of  a  clearing,  and  in  the  gap 
between  some  dark-tree  shafts  he  beheld  the  great 
angular  back  of  Monadnoc  hunched  up  like  wizard- 
work  against  the  clear,  dark  sky  ;  also  the  Scorpion 


304  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

crawling  with  its  golden  or  diamonded  star-points 
through  the  space  above.  He  watched  the  constellation 
slowly  shifting,  hour  by  hour.  Its  gradual  movement, 
connected  with  the  imaginary  reptile  outline,  seemed 
to  be  a  step  in  the  working  of  some  fatalistic  enigma  ; 
and  then  again  its  aspect  changed :  it  became  Hke  a 
glorious  and  triumphant  show  of  jewels  pendent  above 
the  mountain.  Burlen  thought  of  that  sublime  hour 
he  had  passed  on  the  summit  with  Edith,  when  their 
souls  had  flowed  together,  and  they  two  had  possessed 
that  pinnacle  as  if  they  had  been  one  happy  life 
raised  high  above  the, common  world.  And  now  he 
must  resign  himself  to  loneliness  and  darkness,  and 
to  the  chill  of  this  sombre,  hideous  night.  What  did 
it  mean  ?  What  destiny  was  preparing  for  him  ? 

A  wan  gray  dimness  of  light  that  was  not  morn 
ing's  began  to  infiltrate  the  black  spaces  of  the  wood. 
Burlen  heard  a  snake  slip  over  the  loose  leaf-pave 
ment  close  by  him,  but  did  not  stir.  He  seemed  to 
have  come  nearer  to  the  snake  since  morning,  and 
could  almost  sympathize  with  him :  the  day  had 
been  so  terrible,  he  had  grown  so  faint,  humanity 
had  begun  to  seem  so  far  off— any  touch  of  life  was 
acceptable.  The  moon  sent  brighter  rays  into  the 
obscurity,  and  presently  the  lost  man  noticed  a  small 
filmy  ball  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  pallid  glimmer, 
not  three  yards  away.  It  was  a  spider's  silky  cradle- 
cocoon  full  of  eggs,  suspended  by  a  long  thread  from 
a  lifeless  bough  above,  in  such  wise  that  a  slight 
stirring  of  air  caused  it  to  swing  with  the  regu 
larity  of  slow  clock-work.  The  motion  of  this  petty 


DISCOVERY  OF  A   MURDER.  305 

shape  appeared  to  relate  itself  to  the  noiseless  wheel 
ing  of  that  vast  Scorpion  design  in  the  sky,  so  im 
measurably  far  away.  Were  they  not,  in  different 
degrees,  measuring  the  same  deliberate  movement  of 
Fate's  mechanism?  Little  by  little  it  related  itself 
to  another  thing,  —  the  most  revolting  in  the  world. 
It  made  Burlen  think  of  the  wretched  shape  of  some 
condemned  criminal  tossed  into  the  air  to  die,  and 
swaying  helpless  with  the  strangling  rope. 

Then  there  arose  among  the  branches  overhead 
an  unearthly  sound.  The  breeze  had  freshened,  and 
two  limbs  or  tree-stems,  growing  in  such  a  way  that 
the}'  chafed,  emitted  a  desolate  creaking  under  the 
stress  of  the  rushing  .air.  There  is  no  sound  in 
Nature  more  melancholy  than  this  crazy  cry.  The 
tree  that  produces  it  is  malformed,  and  the  inarticu 
late  shriek  carries  with  it  a  thought  of  endless  pain, 
—  the  helpless  anguish  of  a  doom  that  begins  with 
birth,  and  is  forwarded  by  the  very  act  of  growth. 

Burlen  started  up  and  hurried  on,  unable  to  bear 
this  sound.  The  moonlight  now  enabled  him  to  see 
his  way  ;  but  finding  an  open  spot  and  a  smooth  rock, 
he  resolved  to  make  a  fire  and  camp  there  till  morn 
ing.  He  lay  down  without  other  covering  than  a 
projecting  bush  supplied.  But  his  anxieties  and 
visions  distressed  him  more  than  the  hardness  of  his 
bed  and  the  want  of  shelter.  Hunger  had  made  him 
light-headed,  and  he  dreamed  before  he  could  sleep. 
He  fancied  himself  pursued,  hunted  with  dogs,  —  he 
did  not  know  for  what ;  fierce  glaring  eyes  surrounded 
him.  Then  all  this  changed,  and  he  was  hunting 
20 


306  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

himself.  He  could  not  find  himself.  Oh,  now  he 
remembered  :  he  was  lost.  But  how  had  he  come 
into  the  woods  ?  Why  ?  Was  he,  after  all,  a  criminal  ? 
Would  they  catch  him  ;  and  what  would  they  do  to 
him? 

With  a  sharp,  fresh,  foamy  roar  the  gathering 
wind  set  on  anew  against  the  pines :  their  ominous 
murmur  filled  his  ears.  He  fell  asleep. 

Before  the  light  of  dawn  had  fully  risen,  there  be 
gan  a  moist,  refreshing  cheep  and  universal  twitter 
in  the  branches  round  about,  all  the  birds  chirping 
very  much  alike,  as  if  they  had  forgotten  their  species 
overnight.  Comparative  silence  ensued.  First  there 
had  been  the  general  voice  of  the  race :  now  there 
was  a  lull,  —  a  kind  of  prehistoric  period  in  bird-de 
velopment  ;  after  which  the  notes  began  again,  each 
in  its  separate  sort.  The  cat-bird  flung  out  its 
harsh  remonstrance  from  a  hazel-covert  below  ;  the 
jay  indulged  in  the  more  musical  of  his  two  calls. 
Some  robins  were  fluting  with  unusual  alertness, 
apparently  surprised  at  their  own  proficiency ;  and 
from  a  dreamier  distance  floated  the  happy  aria  of 
song-sparrows  that  had  wisely  bnilded  near  seed- 
bearing  fields. 

Burlen  started  up  amid  all  this  lavish  music.  He 
was  lame  with  much  walking  and  exposure  ;  but  the 
clear  upward  pulsations  of  the  da}--break  sk}',  and 
the  sweet  wood-minstrelsy  around  him,  gave  him 
fresh  vigor,  and  finding  a  rough  path  leading  from 
where  he  stood,  in  a  direction  which  he  could  now 
see  would  carry  him  home,  he  sat  out  at  once.  How 


DISCOVERY   OF  A   MURDER.  307 

glorious  the  morning  was,  how  different  from  the 
awful  day  just  gone  ! 

He  had  walked  about  five  minutes,  when  he  heard 
the  rush  of  water,  and  came  upon  the  rocky  pool 
where  he  had  so  often  bathed.  There  wrere  the  clear 
topaz  current  pouring  into  the  natural  basin,  the  big 
black  ash  close  \)j  it,  and  the  thick  screen  of  bushes 
on  the  opposite  side.  The  loneliness  of  the  place 
impressed  Burlen,  as  he  thought  of  the  deed  so  lately 
done  much  nearer  the  highway,  and  he  shuddered. 
Just  then  he  heard  trampling  steps  beyond  the  alders 
across  the  stream,  and  a  new  thought  occurred  to 
him.  ' 

"  What  if  I  should  meet  Whitcot's  murderer  prowl 
ing  here  ?  "  he  asked  himself. 

As  if  to  settle  this  queiy,  the  bushes  were  parted 
and  a  face  presented  itself  in  the  opening.  It  was 
that  of  Major  Brown,  in  his  usual  broken  silk  hat 
bound  with  faded  blue  ribbon.  This  apparition  was 
so  unlike  that  of  a  possible  murderer,  which  Burlen 
had  just  been  imagining,  that  it  became  ridiculous. 

"  Ah,  good  morning  !  "  cried  the  }'oung  man,  with 
a  smile. 

Major  Brown  did  not  speak,  and  seemed  still  less 
inclined  to  smile.  He  picked  his  wa}T  carefully 
across  the  brook  on  some  dry  stones  that  formed  a 
partial  causewa}T,  and  when  very  near  Burlen' s  side  he 
produced  from  his  side-pocket,  with  a  casual  air  of 
having  found  it  in  his  way  there,  a  revolver. 

u  There  's  two  more  on  us  close  behind,"  he  said. 
"  I  arrest  you,  Mr.  Burlen,  on  a  charge  of  murder." 


308  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XXV. 

TINDER   ARREST. 

TX  the  early  morning,  Ravling,  on  the  look-out  at 
•*•  his  tent-door  for  whatever  might  happen,  saw 
the  Sheriff  and  his  party  coming  up  the  road  with 
Bnrlen  in  charge,  and  hastened  to  meet  them. 

The  young  theologian  gazed  at  him  with  a  dumb 
astonishment  and  horror  that  gave  no  clew  to  his 
own  conviction  in  regard  to  his  guilt  or  innocence. 
Had  his  eyes  been  turned  to  stone,  they  could  not 
have  been  less  communicative.  His  color  was  wan, 
his  hair  disordered ;  the  black-and-white  spotted  tie 
that  he  wore  hung  in  two  loosened  strips  fluttering 
uneasily  below  his  impassive  face.  He  did  not  go 
through  any  of  the  formalities  of  recognition,  and 
yet  there  was  a  kind  of  vague  appeal  in  the  uncertain 
stare  which  he  fixed  upon  Ravling. 

The  law}'er  himself  was,  for  an  instant,  checked 
bj"  a  sense  of  possibilities  yet  undetermined  ;  but 
only  for  an  instant.  "We  foresaw  this  yesterda}*," 
he  said  quietly  to  the  prisoner.  "  Say  nothing  to 
these  men  till  I  have  consulted  with  you." 

Then  Buiien  found  his  voice,  and  his  e3'es  began 
to  live  again.  "But  why?  "he  asked  indignantly. 
"  I  am  as  innocent  as  you.  I  was  lost  in  the 
woods." 


UNDER  ARREST.  309 

"You  knew  where  you  were  this  mornin',  'pears 
to  me,"  observed  the  Major,  dryly.  Burlen  merely 
turned  upon  him  a  glance  of  cold  scorn. 

"  I  believe  what  you  say,  Burlen,"  Ravling  assured 
him,  quickly.  "  But  the  circumstances  are  going 
to  make  trouble.  Innocent  men  are  sometimes  in 
the  greatest  danger.  Prejudice  is  aroused,  and 
you  mustn't  give  it  the  advantage  of  misconstru 
ing  a  single  word.  —  What  are  you  going  to  do, 
Mr.  Brown?" 

"Give  him  his  clothes  and  something  to  eat. 
Says  he's  most  starved,"  the  Sheriff  answered. 
44  T  ain't  reg'lar,  maybe  ;  but  then  we  want  a  wagon 
for  him,  too,  and  I  thought  I  might  as  well." 

Major  Brown  was  a  trifle  awed  in  the  presence  of 
Ravling's  legal  acquirements,  and  somehow  felt  that 
he  was  addressing  a  superior  officer. 

"  Very  well.  Take  my  tent.  I  shall  go  with  you 
to  the  village  afterward." 

The  tent  was  immediate!}7  converted  into  a  prison, 
while  Ravling  and  the  Major  proceeded  to  the  house. 
Archdale  was  called  down  and  made  acquainted  with 
the  fact  of  Burlen's  capture.  The  poor  old  gentle 
man's  calm  temperament  and  steady  hand  had  failed 
him  this  morning,  and  his  erudite  chin  displayed  a 
serious  cut  which  he  had  given  himself  with  his 
razor. 

"I  want  to  ask  Robert  one  question, — just  one. 
May  I?  "  he  inquired  piteous!}',  as  if  he  himself  were 
under  arrest  and  unable  to  act  without  permission. 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  the  Major,  who  was  ambitious 


310  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

to  appear  quite  used  to  this  sort  of  thing.  "  /don't 
mind  if  he  don't."  He  jerked  his  thumb  at  the  tent. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Ravling.  "  I  would  like 
to  know  what  the  question  is,  if  3~ou  please.  It 
may  be  important.  And  first  I  must  see  Miss 
Archdale.  Will  you  ask  her  to  give  me  five  min 
utes?  It  is  exceedingly  urgent." 

"Of  course,  if  you  wish  it,"  said  the  Doctor, 
though  his  face  expressed  a  criticism  that  the  request 
was  untimelj*. 

"  I  think  you  should  also  tell  her  of  the  arrest," 
the  3'oung  man  proceeded  undisturbed. 

"Very  well,"  Archdale  again  assented.  He  saw 
that  he  must  be  a  follower  at  present. 

In  a  few  moments  Edith  came  to  the  parlor,  where 
Ravling  met  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  offer  my  services  to  Mr.  Burlen 
for  his  defence,"  he  said  at  once,  "if  3-011  are  will 
ing."  His  manner  was  charged  with  a  tenderness 
that  tried  to  conceal  itself  under  the  deference  and 
respect  of  a  man  who  discusses  some  mere  business 
detail  with  a  woman  upon  whom  great  suffering  has 
unexpectedly  fallen. 

She  raised  her  head  swiftly,  and  flashed  an  aston 
ished  inquir3'  upon  him.  "  You?" 

"  Does  n't  it  seem  natural?  "  he  asked. 

She  dela3~ed  answering.  "  I  did  n't  know  3*011  felt 
such  friendship  for  him."  she  then  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "I — I  thought  3*ou  had  not  so  high  an 
opinion  of  him  as  others." 

"  We  were  rivals,"  he  answered  frankly.     "  That 


UNDER   ARREST.  311 

does  n't  make  me  his  enemy.  And  now  he  is  in 
need  of  immediate  help,  which  it  happens  I  may  be 
able  to  give." 

"  But  why  do  you  come  to  me?  Why  not  go  to 
him?"  she  demanded,  feeling  that  she  had  detected 
him  in  an  effort,  perhaps  half  unconscious,  to  make 
her  lean  upon  his  generosity. 

"  Because  }~ou  have  the  best  right  to  be  consulted. 
Your  father  yesterday  told  me  of  your  engagement, — 
formally  announced  it;  though,  of  course,  I  knew  of 
it  before.  There  is  no  time  to  spare,  and  as  you  had 
this  right  to  approve  or  refuse  my  aid,  I  wanted  to 
ask  you  at  once.  Do  you  object?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ravling,  you  are  generous  !  "  she  cried. 
The  look  she  gave  him  now  was  worth  many  dis 
appointments.  "  You  have  called  yourself  selfish 
so  long  —  " 

"No,  not  always,"  he  interrupted.  "Don't  you 
remember  my  telling  you  once  that  I  could  n't  see 
why  it  was  selfish  to  try  to  advance  myself  and  gain 
a  position,  even  without  any  very  great  aim  perhaps? 
What  I  propose  now  may  not  be  exactly  selfish ;  but 
it  is  hardly  more  generous  than  that.  I  do  it  for  my 
own  good,  too,  because  I  wish  to  help  you  as  well  as 
Burlen ;  and  I  should  be  very  unhappy  if  it  were 
denied  me."  He  waited  a  moment  for  her  to  repty. 
"  Do  you  consent  to  my  service?" 

"  Consent?     Why  should  I  object?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  criminal  lawyer." 

"  And  does  that  make  a  difference?  'Will  it  les 
sen  the  chance  of  a  fair  trial?  " 


312  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

"I  know  something  of  criminal  procedure,"  he 
answered  impartially.  "And  then  I  should  get  a 
young  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  is  strong  in  that 
field,  to  assist  me.  On  the  whole,  I  feel  confidence 
in  myself  because  of  my  personal  knowledge  of  the 
situation.  I  think  I  should  succeed." 

Edith  reflected  a  moment.  It  passed  through  her 
mind  that  a  defeated  rival  in  Ravling' s  position  might 
gain  a  frightful  triumph  over  the  victor  should  he 
in  any  way  misdirect  the  defence  of  life  and  honor. 
She  could  not  suspect  Ravling  of  villany  ;  yet  it  cost 
her  an  effort  to  place  such  a  vital  trust  in  his  hands, 
when  that  thought  had  once  occurred  to  her. 

"  Confidence  would  in  itself  be  a  great  help,"  she 
said  slowly.  «  Tell  me,  Mr.  Ravling,  have  you  yet 
formed  any  idea  as  to  who  is  really  the  criminal?" 
She  looked  steadily,  penetratingly  at  him  ;  and  he 
was  quick  to  see  that  the  question  meant,  "  Are  you 
thoroughly  convinced  of  Robert's  innocence  ?  " 

His  own  eyes  returned  an  involuntary  assurance 
on  this  point,  which  she  accepted.  "  Yes,"  he 
answered,  "  I  have  my  idea.  But  I  shall  not  breathe 
a  word  to  any  one  until  I  have  got  something  to 
go  upon.  That 's  my  strongest  hope  in  the  case,  and 
I  must  n't  risk  it  by  doing  anything  premature.  You 
may  be  sure,  though,  that  the  person  I  suspect  will  be 
watched." 

"I'm  willing  to  trust  it  all  to  you,"  she  declared 
impulsively. 

"It  is  you  who  are  generous,"  he  said,  his  voice 
quivering  a  little. 


UNDER   ARREST.  313 

As  he  took  the  hand  she  had  eagerly  put  forth  to 
press  her  own  gratitude  and  courage  into  his,  he 
longed  to  bend  and  touch  his  lips  upon  it,  if  only 
in  token  of  resignation  and  farewell  to  what  he  had 
once  believed  he  might  win.  What  would  he  not 
have  given  to  be  allowed  even  a  moment's  uncon 
cealed  worship  before  her  there  !  But  he  knew  that 
the  desire  wronged  his  deeper  sentiment  toward  her, 
and  he  went  his  way  in  silence. 

She  looked  after  him  from  the  window,  feeling 
that  she  had  never  adequately  known  him  until  this 
moment. 

"  What  in  the  world  could  Mr.  Ravling  have  to 
say  at  such  a  time?"  demanded  Mrs.  Savland,  who 
had  just  rustled  downstairs  and  slipped  into  the 
room  unnoticed.  Edith  told  her  the  errand  that  had 
brought  him.  ';  Well,  that  is  certainly  very  noble  of 
him,"  said  her  aunt  glibly.  "  But  I  wonder  at  his 
coming  to  }'ou.  Of  course  your  relations  with  Robert 
Bmicn  are  at  an  end  now." 

"  No,  Aunt  Grace,  they  've  only  just  begun." 

Mrs.  Savland  was  silent  for  a  time,  while  her  niece 
continued  looking  out  upon  the  morning  sky,  with  tear 
less  eyes  and  a  burning  at  her  heart.  When  Arch- 
dale,  a  few  minutes  before,  had  informed  his  sister  of 
the  situation,  the  magnitude  of  the  disaster  had  at 
first  palsied  her  tongue.  In  such  an  emergency  even 
pulsatilla  pills  could  not  be  counted  on  with  any  cer- 
taint}T.  She  stared  vacantly  at  her  brother  for  an 
instant,  and  then  startled  him  with  this  announce 
ment  :  — 


314  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Thomas,  we  must  go  to  Europe." 

"  Europe?"  he  gasped,  fearing  that  her  mind  was 
unhinged. 

"  Yes  ;  Edith  and  I.    We  ought  to  start  at  once." 

"What  for?" 

"  To  get  her  away,  of  course.  Harm  enough  has 
been  done,  Heaven  knows  ;  but  she  must  n't  be  mixed 
up  in  a  murder  trial;  you  can  understand  that,  I 
hope.  I  must  go  with  her  immediately,  and  stay  a 
long  time,  till  this  is  all  forgotten. 

"  But  Robert  —  "  he  began. 

At  this  point  Mrs.  S  a  viand  had  abandoned  him, 
and,  in  descending  the  stairs,  she  had  caught  sight 
of  the  lawyer  leaving  the  parlor.  Gathering  her 
forces,  she  broached  her  project  to  Edith ;  but  the 
girl  turned  upon  her  with  a  quiet  intensity  of  disdain 
that,  for  the  first  time,  opened  Mrs.  Sav land's  eyes 
to  the  full  measure  of  the  distance  between  them. 

The  lingering  cynicism  around  her  lips  grew  into  a 
curve  of  lofty  courage,  as  she  answered  in  a  voice 
divided  by  jarring  notes  of  love  and  anguish:  "I 
shall  never  leave  Robert  till  this  is  over.  Life  is  a 
tragedy,  people  say :  well,  it  has  begun  for  us  as  if 
it  really  were  one,  and  he  and  I  have  our  parts  to 
gether.  Whatever  he  has  to  bear  I  shall  glory  in 
bearing.  I  will  be  true  now,  —  true  to  him,  —  even 
if  I  am  never  called  on  to  be  true  again."  Then, 
feeling  tears  of  mortification  springing  to  her  eyes  at 
the  shame  which  her  aunt's  shrunken  soul  had  put 
upon  her  love,  she  went  swiftly  from  the  room. 

In  the  little  square  hall-way  she  came  upon  Mrs. 


UNDER  ARREST.  315 

Pride.  "  Oh,  my  dear  !  "  cried  the  poor  housewife, 
trembling  with  pity;  and  then  she  put  her  stiff, 
veined  hands  on  the  young  shoulders,  unable  to  say 
more.  "  It'll  all  come  right,"  she  went  on,  recov 
ering  herself.  "Martha  Pride  tells  you  so.  Only 
don't  go  teening  and  crying,  dear.  They  've  made 
a  mistake,  that's  all.  Some  one's  got  his  head 
squiggled,  and  they  've  lighted  on  the  wrong  pusson. 
I've  just  been  out  telling  Major  Brown  so,  and  tole 
him  he'd  better  go  hoppity-skippity  after  the  real 
man  putty  quick,  or  he  might  git  away.  And  now 
his  breakfast 's  all  ready.  He  was  in  the  woods  all 
night,  you  know  ;  sh'd  you  s'pose  it?" 

"What?  Whose?  Have  they  caught  the  man 
who  really  did  it?"  asked  Edith,  confused.  "  Whose 
breakfast  are  you  talking  about?" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Burlen's." 

"Oh,  let  me  take  it  to  him  !  " 

Mrs.  Pride  hurried  away,  and  returned  with  the 
tray  she  had  prepared.  But  she  found  Mrs.  Sav- 
land  and  Archdale  in  the  hall,  remonstrating. 

"  That  I  cannot  allow,"  Mrs.  Savland  affirmed. 
"  Your  father  will  forbid  it.  Thomas  !  " 

And  Archdale,  being  commanded,  began  :  "  Edith, 
my  child,  don't  you  think  —  " 

"  Father,  will  you  please  open  the  door  for  me?" 
said  Edith,  quietly,  with  the  tray  in  her  hands. 

He  opened  the  door. 

Ravling  happened  to  be  approaching  the  gate,  and 
met  her.  He  took  off  his  hat.  "  Shall  1  tell  Mr. 
Buiien  you  are  coming.?  "  he  asked  gently  ;  and,  upon 


316  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

her  consenting,  he  turned  and  moved  on  before  her, 
still  leaving  his  head  uncovered. 

The  guards, — a  constable  and  two  assistants,  all 
in  plain  clothes  a  good  deal  faded,  and  slouch  hats, 
—  moved  away  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  tent,  as  they 
saw  Edith  coming.  Her  relation  to  the  prisoner  had 
promptly  become  known  to  them,  and  their  official 
rigor  was  less  strong  than  their  American  sense  of 
duty  towards  a  woman. 

"Edith!  Why  have  you  come?"  There  was 
gratitude  in  Burlen's  tone ;  there  was  intense  long 
ing  in  it,  too ;  but  the  pang  he  felt  for  Edith's  posi 
tion  and  his  desire  to  relieve  her  from  it  conquered 
these  emotions. 

"You  ought  not  to  ask,"  she  said  sadly,  yet  try 
ing  to  throw  cheer  into  the  words.  "I  wanted  to, 
Robert.  I  longed  to  do  something  for  you  ;  and  it 
just  happened  — oh,  Robert,  do  you  forgive  me?" 
She  had  set  down  her  burden  and  taken  a  step  or 
two  towards  him,  in  a  contrition  that  made  her,  he 
thought,  more  touchingly  beautiful  than  he  had  ever 
seen  her. 

"  Forgive  you  what,  dear?" 

"  My  anger  and  my  selfishness.  I  hardly  knew 
what  I  was  saying.  I  did  n't  mean  it.  I  wanted  so  to 
tell  you  yesterday.  I  thought  you  knew  the  girl  was 
your  sister  and  were  going  to  be  cruel  to  her ;  and 
that,  with  the  concealment  —  oh  !  "  she  sobbed,  giv 
ing  way;  and  putting  her  arm  over  her  face,  she 
leaned  her  head  against  the  tent-post,  wearily. 
"  I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  he  said  calmly.  "I  had 


UNDER  ARREST.  317 

been  drawn  into  a  false  position.  If  I  had  followed 
my  own  instinct  everything  would  have  gone  well. 
I  was  for  truth,  not  policy,  and  I  ought  to  have  held 
to  it.  But,  Edith,"  he  added,  in  sudden  excitement, 
41  you  mustn't  stay  here.  We're  forgetting.  .  .  . 
Remember  what  has  happened  to  me !  You  must 
not  be  exposed  to  this." 

"I  wish  to!"  she  exclaimed,  lifting  her  head. 
There  was  a  certain  white,  exalted  light  about  her 
forehead.  "I  wish  to  bear  it  with  3-011  —  whatever 
comes." 

4 'But  it  isn't  right,"  he  urged,  with  increasing 
distress.  "God  knows  I  should  like  your  help  ;  I 
would  like  to  have  }*our  arms  about  me.  But  I  can 
not  !  You  must  not  even  come  near  me  until  I  have 
been  justified  from  this  shadow.  Don't  you  see  that? 
Trust  me." 

"  If  you  tell  me  so,"  she  said,  that  luminous  qual 
ity  still  suffusing  her  face,  "  I  will  stay  awa}-.  It 
will  be  harder  for  me,  but  I  can  do  it.  Whatever 
you  think  —  that  must  be  right." 

He  knew  that  he  could  not  depend  upon  his  own 
strength  further,  and,  raising  his  hand,  pointed 
silently  towards  the  house.  She  lingered  a  little. 
"  See  if  you  can  find  your  father,"  he  said,  trying 
to  speak  without  agitation. 

She  moved;  her  lips  shaped  a  "  good-by,"  but 
the  sound  did  not  reach  him.  The  two  looked  their 
farewell,  that  otherwise  must  have  expressed  itself 
in  rushing  tears. 


318  IN  Tim  DISTANCE. 


XXYI. 

PREPARING    FOR   A    STRUGGLE. 

'T'lIE  question  which  Archdale  wished  to  put  to 
-1-  Burlen,  as  he  speedily  made  known  on  arriving 
at  the  tent-door,  was  this  :  »  What  did  you  mean  by 
that  strange  exclamation  when  the  men 'first  brought 
us  word  that  Whitcot  was  —  dead  ?  You  know,  my 
boy,  how  I  feel  about  you  ;  but  I  want  you  to  explain 
that." 

The  young  man  looked  bewildered.  "  What  ex 
clamation  ?  " 

"Is  it  possible  you've  forgotten?"  inquired  his 
old  preceptor,  feeling  that  a  chasm  was  opening  be 
tween  them,  which  might  abruptly  broaden  and  put 
them  asunder.  "  You  said  something  about  Whitcot 
being  killed,  and  you  being  in  some  way  to  blame : 
at  least  you  said  '  And  it  was  I  who  —  '  what,  Rob, 
ert?  You  who  —  come,  tell  me  what  you  meant! 
Don't  you  see  how  strange  it  sounds?" 

"  Did  I  say  that?"  returned  Ikirlen,  touching  his 
hand  to  his  forehead.  Then,  with  a  heavy  return  to 
memory,  "Oh,  yes!  I  see  what  you  are  recalling. 
I  have  been  through  so  much  since  then.  I  know 
my  first  thought  was,  that,  in  my  rage  with  Whitcot, 
I  had  told  him  that  I  wished  he  was  dead  ;  and  there 
was  my  wish  fulfilled  before  I  had  time  to  retract  it. 


PREPARING  FOR   A    STRUGGLE.       319 

I  suppose  I  exclaimed  something  to  that  effect, 
didn't  I?" 

"•Yes,  Robert;  those  were  the  words  I've 
repeated.  Oh,  if  you  had  only  finished  your  sen 
tence  !  "  Archdale  clasped  his  hands  in  the  vehe 
mence  of  his  regret. 

"Why?"  asked  Burlen. 

"  Because  others  heard  what  3'ou  said,  and  it  will 
be  hard  to  explain  them." 

The  young  man  felt  as  if  he  had  tried  to  move  one 
of  his  limbs  freehT  and  had  found  himself  tied.  The 
perception  of  how  those  guiltless  words  might  be 
used  against  him  reminded  him  that  he  had  not  }'et 
fully  comprehended  what  it  was  to  be  a  prisoner 
under  suspicion  of  capital  crime.  A  momentary 
numbness  of  horror  fell  upon  him. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said,  rousing  himself  on  seeing 
Archdale's  misery.  "  I  am  innocent.  I  can't  be 
condemned  for  another's  crime,  unless  God  wills  it. 
My  own  punishment  has  already  come :  it  is  enough 
that  people  can  think  for  a  moment  I  might  have 
committed  such  a  deed.  Oh,  what  a  stain  !  It 's  a 
stain  that  almost  proves  my  unfitness  ever  to  do 
good.  And  yet  I  deserve  it,  I  know.  I  deserve  it 
for  that  one  moment  of  unbridled  hate.  How  we 
planned  and  planned,  Doctor,  to  evade  the  snares  of 
my  old  misfortunes  ;  and  see  how  the  evil  fate  that 
was  born  with  me  traps  me,  just  when  we  fancied  it 
was  finall}7  defeated  !  " 

u  Oh,  not  so  !  it's  not  so  !  "  cried  Archdale,  getting 
down  where  he  could  half  enfold  him  with  one  arm. 


320  IN   THE   DISTANCE. 

"Don't  feel  so,  my  boy!  You  exaggerate.  I  un 
derstand  the  pain  of  your  conscience ;  but  you  will 
see,  when  you've  come  through  this  trial,  that  you're 
not  unfitted  for  your  high  calling.  Don't  give  up 
courage  and  faith  in  your  mission,  my  dear  fellow ! 
Remember,  you  're  my  son :  remember  what  we  all 
expect  from  you  !  " 

"I  will,"  said  Burlen,  in  a  low,  reverent  voice. 
' '  Thank  Heaven  for  such  a  father !  " 

And  with  one  silent,  firm  embrace  of  the  kind  that 
men  bestow  on  one  another  only  when  carried  clean 
out  of  masculine  consciousness  into  the  realm  where 
all  suffering  spirits  meet  on  equal  terms,  —  with  one 
such  embrace,  they  parted. 

The  telegraph  had  shot  out  messages  from  Sav 
age's  Mills  as  a  centre  to  all  parts  of  the  country, 
detailing  the  violent  end  of  Whitcot  and  the  arrest 
on  strong  suspicion  of  "an  eloquent  young  clergy 
man  staying  in  the  vicinity."  Everywhere  the  news 
was  acceptable  as  a  relief  from  the  vulgarity  and 
monotonous  repetition  of  average  criminal  reports. 
The  great  newspaper  public  quickly  recognized  the 
case  as  something  select,  and  opinion  went  with 
swift  unanimity  against  Burlen  because  of  his  sacred 
profession.  The  Linkinfoot  scandal  had  warmed  the 
general  mind  into  quite  a  flaming  and  sulphurous 
scepticism  as  to  the  virtue  of  the  clerical  class,  and 
a  vast  number  rejoiced  in  the  fact  that  this  suspected 
man  was  a  young  minister,  —  as  much  as  if  the  accu 
sation  against  him  established  beyond  doubt  their  own 


PREPARING  FOR  A    STRUGGLE.        321 

exceeding  uprightness.  The  local  paper  at  Savage's 
indulged  in  safe  innuendoes,  alluding  pungently  to 
the  former  banking  and  defaulting  pastor  of  the 
Second  Church ;  and,  though  not  daring  to  advance 
such  a  view  himself,  the  editor  reproduced  an  article 
from  a  metropolitan  journal,  which  alluded  to  the 
Burlen  case  and  the  Linkinfoot  scandal,  and  wound 
up  by  declaring  that  the  "era  of  priestcraft"  had 
gone  by,  and  that  the  leadership  of  the  clergy  had 
practically  given  place  to  that  of  the  press. 

A  Boston  reporter  also  arrived,  talked  with  every 
body,  flattered  and  looked  down  upon  the  local 
editor,  and  sent  home  a  long  account  of  the  affair 
in  numerous  short  chapters,  giving  Burlen's  perso 
nal  history,  telling  of  the  engagement  with  Edith, 
describing  the  "  deportment "  of  the  «  supposed  mur 
derer  ; "  and  in  all  ways  sacrificing  decency  and  con 
sideration  to  aid  his  own  sensational  success. 

From  nothing  of  this  did  Burlen  shrink.  He 
faced  it  all  and  studied  it.  Looking  steadily  at  the 
cold,  craven,  unbeautiful  side  of  human  nature  that 
was  now  turned  upon  him,  he  felt  a  separation  tak 
ing  place  between  himself  and  the  race.  Human 
ity  receded  from  him  like  an  ebbing  tide  ;  and  yet 
he  felt,  too,  strangely  enough,  that  he  was  forming 
a  new  bond  with  his  kind,  which  gave  him  power 
over  it.  The  Rev.  Franklin  Bland  forgot  to  offer 
him  any  support.  But  although  Dr.  Snowe  came 
to  see  him  once,  in  his  cell,  —a  plain,  cheerful  room 
in  an  old  jail  otherwise  untenanted,  —  he  appeared 
scarcely  at  his  ease;  and  the  only  companions 
21 


322  I&   THE  DISTANCE. 

with  whom  he  could  really  speak  were  Ravling  and 
Archdale. 

Mrs.  Savland  was  more  sensitive  than  he.  She 
had  made  a  second  effort  to  withdraw  Edith  from  the 
scene,  but  without  avail ;  and  then  she  took  Viola 
under  her  wing  and  fled  to  Marie,  in  time  to  escape 
contamination,  publicity,  and  the  insinuating  efforts 
of  the  interviewer. 

"  Oh,  I  do  feel  so  sorry  at  having  to  leave  you  !  " 
cried  Miss  Welsted  to  Edith.  "But  I  see  that  I 
can  be  of  no  use  in  staying.  You  would  n't  have 
me  do  so,  would  you,  Edith?  And  3'ou  know  Long 
fellow  says  '  disasters  come  not  singly ' :  do  you 
remember?  — 

"  '  First  a  shadow,  then  a  sorrow, 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish.' 

I  'm  sure  it  won't  be  so  with  you,"  she  added,  aware 
of  the  unfortunate  choice  of  her  quotation;  "and 
m}'  heart  will  be  with  you,  even  if  I  'in  not  here. 
Write  to  me,  dear,  when  you  can." 

So  Archdale  and  his  daughter  were  left  at  the 
farm  alone.  The  new  term  had  begun  at  the  Marie 
Theological  School,  but  the  professor  succeeded  in 
making  a  temporary  arrangement  to  have  his  place 
supplied,  feeling  himself  unequal  to  the  resumption 
of  his  lectures. 

In  the  mean  time  Ravling  and  his  junior  counsel 
took  rooms  in  the  village  and  worked  hard  in  pre 
paration  for  the  case.  The  Grand  Jury  had  fortu 
nately  met  soon  after  Burlen's  arrest,  and  had  found 
their  indictment :  the  trial  was  appointed  to  take 


PREPARING  FOR  A    STRUGGLE.        323 

place  within  ten  days.  Both  the  advocate  and  the 
prisoner  had  no  doubt  as  to  where  the  guilt  for 
Whitcot's  death  really  lay ;  but  they  could  not  im 
part  their  surmises.  The  counsel  for  the  defence 
were  engaged  in  detective  manoeuvres  as  well  as  in 
taking  legal  precautions.  The^y  were  careful  to  have 
the  ground  well  searched  all  around  the  scene  of 
the  murder,  without  letting  that  measure  become 
known.  Two  unobtrusive  men  arrived  at  the  hotel, 
who  were  supposed  to  be  lightning-rod  agents,  but 
might  have  been  noticed,  had  any  one  been  keen 
enough  to  observe  them,  spending  a  good  deal  of  time 
near  the  woollen-mill  and  taking  an  uncommon  interest 
in  one  of  its  occupants.  Twice  Ravling  drove  up  to 
the  farm,  and  happened  to  be  in  the  barn  at  the  same 
time  that  Timotlry  was  there,  —  a  circumstance  favor 
able  to  the  quiet  interchange  of  ideas  and  informa 
tion.  Once,  too,  there  was  a  secret  assembly  in  the 
deserted  house  with  heart-shaped  door-lights  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill ;  and  if  the  foot-prints  near  the 
threshold  had  been  studied,  three  different  shapes 
would  have  been  discovered,  —  one  of  which  would 
have  exactly  accommodated  the  shoe  of  Ida  Hiss. 

That,  in  fact,  was  the  dilemma.  Ravling  had 
grown  thin  and  worn  by  the  time  they  were  within 
two  days  of  the  trial ;  and  the  general  belief  among 
on-lookers  was  that  he  would  fail  to  bring  his  client 
off. 

This  was  the  conviction  expressed  in  an  influential 
group  collected  in  the  office-room  of  the  hotel,  the 
night  before  the  case  was  to  be  tried.  Stubbs,  as 


324  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

the  sole  possessor  of  peculiar!}-  damaging  testimony, 
had  much  to  say  ;  but  Epenetus,  Serious,  and  Absalom 
Savage  were  all  present, — Absalom  wearing  a  stunned 
look,  which,  ever  since  the  first  tidings  of  the  murder 
reached  him,  had  conferred  upon  him  the  air  of  hav 
ing  consummated  his  life-long  effort  at  total  deaf 
ness.  This  relieved  him  from  even  appearing  to 
listen  to  discussion  on  a  matter  already  so  nearly 
settled.  The  rest  found  in  the  occasion  a  distinct 
need  for  the  consumption  of  whiske}r  and  for  much 
difference  of  view  on  minor  points.  Each  one  con 
sidered  it  his  duty  to  uphold  a  thcon"  varying  in 
some  particular  from  that  of  an}Tbody  else. 

Waddy,  the  barber,  still  clung  to  the  idea  that  a 
plea  of  insanity  would  be  set  up.  Without  that,  no 
murder  trial  could  be  complete. 

Serious,  after  drumming  on  his  teeth  in  masterly 
inactivitj^,  put  forward  his  argument  that  an  alibi 
would  be  claimed. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  /heard  this  morning,"  said 
Major  Brown,  modestly  assuming  by  his  manner  that 
any  little  contribution  from  him  might  not  be  duly 
heeded,  even  though  it  in  fact  decided  the  debate. 
"I  was  told  that  the  defence  could  not  find  any 
suitable  line,  and,  quite  's  likely  as  not,  will  plead 
guilty  and  appeal  for  mercy." 

An  awful  hush  followed  these  words,  for  it  was 
known  that  the  Major  had  been  seen  talking  with 
the  State's  Attorney,  the  Hon.  Ebenezer  McKnight, 
—  a  tall,  raw-faced  barrister  with  Jeffersonian  man 
ners,  —  who  was  at  that  moment  shrouded  in  the 


PREPARING  FOR  A    STRUGGLE.       325 

secrecy  of  an  upstairs  room,  making  his  final  notes 
for  the  prosecution. 

But  the  hardware  dealer,  Card,  succeeded  in  se 
curing  a  unique  ground,  while  steering  clear  of 
offence  to  any  one.  "  I  differ  with  3^011  all,  gentle 
men,"  he  began,  with  unwonted  boldness.  "  I  have 
my  notions  of  what  will  be  done ;  but  the  point  is 
this,  — the  result  is  going  to  be  very  unexpected." 

For  an  instant  they  half  believed  that  he  had  ut 
tered  something  denoting  superior  sagacit}T.  Then 
Breck  said  to  the  Major,  with  some  hesitanc3T,  — 

"  Have  you  got  the  rope,  Sheriff  ?  I  suppose 
you'll  —  " 

"Time  enough,"  answered  that  functionaiy,  with 
the  air  of  an  old  hand.  "Have  to  get  a  new  one 
every  time,  you  know.  I  rec  'lect  Caldwell,  —  second 
cousin  to  K.  V.  Swift,  Ser'ous,  —  Caldwell  used  to 
say  when  he  went  to  the  rope-maker's,  if  he  'd  got 
a  man  to  hang,  the  manufacturer  'd  throw  down  his 
hands  and  tell  him,  '  There,  I  know  just  what  you 
come  for :  take  it  and  go  ! '  Never  would  accept  a 
cent  for  it,  he  would  n't.  And  they  furnish  good 
stuff,  too.  Them  ropes  '11  bear  a  strain  of  three 
thousand  pounds." 

The}?'  were  all  impressed  ;  and  Card,  vainry  hoping 
to  find  some  way  of  voicing  the  general  appreciation, 
asked  with  much  gravity:  "That's  more  than's 
necessary,  ain't  it?" 


326  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XXVII. 

THE    CRISIS    IN    COURT. 

BUSINESS  was  almost  suspended  when  the  hour 
for  opening  the  court  arrived  ;  and  most  of  the 
able-bodied  part  of  the  community  poured  into  the 
pew-like  seats  of  the  big  barren  apartment,  duly 
furnished  with  tables,  chairs,  and  gutta-percha  spit 
toons  of  that  large  official  pattern  which  seems  to 
bear  some  occult  relation  of  peculiar  fitness  to  the 
dispensing  of  justice  in  our  courts. 

Among  the  rest,  Ida  Hiss,  Iludyard,  and  Timothy 
Pride,  with  his  mother,  were  present;  and  even 
Mother  Savage,  who  had  qualified  herself  by  a  course 
of  criminal  and  litigious  fiction  pursued  since  the 
arrest,  made  her  appearance, — her  lips  wound  up 
into  a  knot  on  one  side,  missing  the  accustomed  pipe 
now  denied  her.  Breck,  the  jeweller,  had  difficulty 
in  deciding  on  which  of  the  too  man}'  objects  of  in 
terest  he  should  fix  his  earnest  e}Te ;  but  at  last  he 
found  it  fascinated  by  Whitcot's  father,  who  had 
made  a  deep  impression  in  the  village  by  the  bit 
terness  of  his  grief,  and  b}T  ordering  a  piece  of 
Monadnoc  rock  to  be  quarried  for  his  son's  tomb 
stone  at  Marie.  He  had  now  come  up  expressly  to 
watch  the  trial,  having  done  all  he  could  to  assist 


THE   CRISIS  IN  COURT.  327 

the  prosecutor  in  securing  evidence  for  Burlen's 
conviction. 

It  was  a  strange  thing  to  see  him  sitting  there,  — 
a  man  of  fifty-five,  with  a  short  beard,  perfectly  white 
but  jauntily  trimmed,  darker  hair  parted  at  the 
crown,  and  clothes  of  a  fashionable  and  over-youth 
ful  cut.  Handsome,  selfish,  a  man  of  the  world,  he 
looked  like  his  son  grown  suddenly  old,  —  a  young 
man  prematurely  burnt  out  and  ashen ;  but  just 
under  the  white  beard  glowed  a  magenta  silk  neck- 
scarf  (he  refused  to  wear  mourning),  which  might 
have  stood  for  the  last  live  spark  of  fire  remaining  in 
him.  And  it  wras  plain  from  his  face  that  all  his  fire 
was  now  converted  into  a  desire  for  vengeance. 

The  judge  entered,  and  the  audience  became  sub 
dued.  The  prisoner  was  brought  in,  and  it  began  to 
recover  tone.  Notwithstanding  the  drift  of  opinion, 
there  was  no  trouble  about  filling  the  jury  until  the 
name  of  Tarbox  was  called.  Then  Ravling  entered 
a  protest.  Tarbox  had  been  singularly  affected  by 
Richard's  death.  From  having  had  him  in  his  house 
for  a  while,  he  now  seemed  to  confuse  the  dead  man's 
identity  with  that  of  his  lost  son.  He  had  been 
heard  to  talk  loudly  of  inflicting  speed}'  punishment 
on  the  3'oung  preacher,  and  was  evidently  becoming 
unsettled  in  mind.  After  a  short  debate,  therefore, 
he  was  rejected  propter  ajfectum.  This  incident 
heightened  the  eagerness  of  the  spectators. 

"...  That  }'Oii  will  well  and  truly  try  and  true 
deliverance  make  between  the  State  of  New  Hamp 
shire  and  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.  So  help  you  God." 


328  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

These  words  being  spoken  for  the  twelfth  time,  and 
sworn  to,  the  panel  was  complete,  and  the  State's 
Attorney  rose  to  open  the  prosecution. 

He  first  ruffled  an  imposing  shirt-bosom,  which 
bore  a  small  frill  terrible  as  the  comb  of  a  fio-htino-- 

o  o 

cock,  at  the  prisoner,  the  opposing  counsel,  the 
entire  audience,  and  lastly  —  though  in  more  deferen 
tial  fashion  —  at  the  bench  itself.  This  shirt-bosom 
was  privately  looked  upon  by  its  owner  as  one  of  the 
bulwarks  of  law  and  society ;  but  it  was  only  a  part 
of  his  armor.  Accusation  resided  in  his  very  hair, 
high  uplifted  above  his  forehead ;  there  was  the  glow 
of  just  indignation  in  his  crimson  cheek,  and  con 
demnatory  scorn  quivered  in  his  long  forefinger. 
He  had  in  fact  modelled  himself  on  a  distinguished 
advocate  who  had  impressed  him  in  his  youth,  and 
presented  an  old-school  demeanor  which  carried  con 
viction  to  the  inhabitants  of  Savage's. 

He  finished  his  opening  and  came  to  the  evidence. 

First  witness  for  the  government,  —  Epenetus  B. 
Savage.  He  appears  promptly  in  the  witness-box, 
rising  up  like  an  inky  and  discolored  ghost.  His 
testimony  is  brief;  touches  the  finding  of  the  body; 
also  certain  foot-marks  in  the  vicinity  leading  towards 
the  river  and  ceasing  there. 

Next  a  physician  is  called, — a  supernumerary, 
to  place  the  "  properties  "  of  the  case.  Gives  routine 
evidence,  bearing  on  the  immediate  cause  and  prob 
able  time  of  death. 

Third  witness,  —  Marshall  Stubbs.  He  repeats 
the  story  of  the  quarrel  overheard.  His  manner  is 


THE  CRISIS  IN  COURT.  329 

shrewd,  deliberate,  winning  general  favor.  His  nar 
ration,  being  dry  even  to  unwillingness,  only  height 
ens  the  sensation  produced  when  he  reeites  Burlen's 
express  wish  that  Whitcot  might  be  obliterated. 
And  when  he  imitates  the  accused  man's  action  in 
flinging  up  his  arms  as  he  disappeared  in  the  direc 
tion  taken  by  Whitcot,  the  jury  by  a  simultaneous 
movement  fix  their  eyes  suddenly  on  Burlen,  with 
angered  intensit}'. 

Ravling  tried  to  break  the  force  of  this  attack  by 
cross-questioning,  but  did  not  succeed  well ;  and 
everybody  thought  him  crushed.  Stubbs  was  dis 
missed  and  Mrs.  Pride  sworn,  to  show  that  the  pris 
oner,  after  the  quarrel,  had  returned  to  the  house 
with  his  clothes  wet  through  ;  this  in  connection  with 
the  traces  of  foot-prints  mentioned  by  Epenetus. 

"Now,  my  good  woman,"  said  the  prosecutor, 
growing  portentously  bland,  "how  did  he  explain 
his  condition  at  that  time  ?  " 

"  He  did  n't  say  nothing  at  all  about  conditions." 

The  lawyer  affected  an  indignant  air.  "  Did  you 
ask  him  how  he  got  wet  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  said  he  had  slipped  and  fallen  into  the 
river." 

"  And  you  believed  him?  " 

Ravling  started  up.  "  We  object  to  that  question, 
your  honor." 

"Now,  Mr.  Ravling,"  interposed  Mrs.  Pride, 
"  what  do  you  go  objectin'  for?  I'm  only  going  to 
tell  him  the  truth." 

"  The  witness  will  be  silent ! "  announced  the 
judge,  curtly. 


330  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

Mrs.  Pride  threw  him  an  indignant  glance.  "  You 
needn't  be  so  grurnsy,  anyhow,"  she  muttered. 

"  We  maintain,"  continued  Ravling,  "  that  the 
witness  must  be  presumed  to  have  given  the  pris 
oner's  statement  credence,  unless  special  reason  can 
be  shown  why  she  should  not  have  done  so." 

The  prosecutor  fumed  and  persisted  ;  but  the  judge 
looking  out  of  the  nearest  window  as  if  communing 
with  some  invisible  monitor  of  justice  posted  there, 
declared  the  question  inadmissible. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  attorney,  sweeping 
around  towards  the  witness  again,  and  bringing  the 
full  force  of  his  shirt-frill  to  bear.  "  Was  there  some 
reason  why  —  " 

"  I  object,"  cried  Ravling.  "  '  Was  there  any9  is 
better." 

The  other  lawyer,  with  formidable  courtesy,  took 
the  suggestion.  "Was  there  any  reason  why  you 
should  not  believe  his  statement?" 

"  Of  course  there  wasn't,"  Mrs.  Pride  exclaimed. 
"  And  if  there  had  n't  been  such  a  stewing  and  brew 
ing  about  it,  I  'el  have  told  you  so  long  ago." 

The  State's  Attorney  went  on  to  show  the  fact  of 
Bmien's  seclusion  after  his  return,  and  his  disappear 
ance  the  next  morning,  immediately  on  the  announce 
ment  of  Whitcot's  body  having  been  discovered. 

Cross-examined,  Mrs.  Pride  declared  that  a  young 
man,  going  out  to  walk  under  ordinary  circum 
stances,  had  once  lost  himself  in  the  same  vicinity, 
and  was  found  only  after  three  days.  "  When  he 
come  out  of  the  woods,"  she  added,  yielding  to  an 


THE   CRISIS  IN   COURT.  331 

historic  impulse,  "  he  was  thin  as  a  pea-pod  in  a  dry 
spell ;  most  starved,  too.    But,  law  !  we  was  all  born 

I  would  say  mortal;    and  so  I  says,  says  I  — " 

At  this  point,   however,   she  was   stopped,   on  the 
ground  of  irrelevancy. 

The  defence  had  begun  to  gain  a  little  in  public 
estimation;  but  Archdale's  testimony,  which  fol 
lowed,  bringing  in  Buiien's  enigmatic  words  con 
necting  himself  with  the  murder,  told  heavily  against 
the  prisoner.  It  now  remained  for  the  prosecution 
to  complete  the  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence, 
and  suggest  a  sufficient  motive  on  the  part  of  the 
accused. 

An  account  of  Wliitcot's  supposed  discovery  that 
Ida  Hiss  was  Thyrsa  Burlen  was  drawn  forth  ;  and 
as  the  mysterious  girl  was  present,  she  became  sud 
denly  one  of  the  persons  of  the  drama.  Burlen 
looked  across  the  space  between  himself  and  the 
place  where  she  sat,  and  saw  that  her  bold,  dark, 
melancholy  beauty  was  clouded  with  a  dim  blush; 
but  otherwise  she  gave  no  token  of  interest.  The 
final  witness  for  the  Government  was  Rudyard.  No 
rumor  of  the  many  which  had  abounded  had  touched 
this  man ;  yet  as  soon  as  he  took  the  stand,  every 
one  in  the  room  appeared  to  be  sensible  of  something 
peculiar  about  his  presence. 

"Where  were  you,"  began  the  examining  lawyer, 
"on  the  afternoon  when  the  murder  is  supposed  to 
have  occurred  ?  " 

"  Down  by  the  river." 

"  State  what  took  place  there." 


332  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"I  heard  a  noise  in  the  woods,  and  then  he,"  — 
jerking  his  head  towards  the  prisoner,  —  "  Mr.  Bur- 
len,  I  mean,  came  running  to  the  bank." 

On  this,  the  prisoner  looked  the  witness  full  in 
the  face,  with  an  indignant  flash  of  the  eyes.  Ida 
Hiss  started  and  leaned  forward,  gazing  eagerly 
from  one  to  the  other.  The  blush  had  left  her  face, 
which  showed  a  clear  brown  pallor  in  its  plane. 
Rudyard  returned  the  young  preacher's  angry  scru 
tiny  with  a  steady,  malignant  stillness. 

'u  Did  you  notice  anything  further?"  was  the  next 
question. 

"  He  jumped  into  the  water,"  proceeded  Rudyard, 
in  a  sullen  voice,  "  and  splashed  around  a  great 
deal.  He  seemed  to  be  rubbing  his  clothes." 

"  Was  this  far  from  the  spot  where  the  body  was 
discovered  ?  " 

"  No :  not  very  far,  I  should  say." 

"  Have  you  any  doubt  about  it?" 

"No,  sir.  It  was  near  that  place."  Rudyard 
here  slightly  averted  his  face,  and  Burlen  fancied 
that  a  look  passed  between  him  and  Ida.  The  ex 
pression  of  dumb  scorn  on  the  girl's  face,  in  reply, 
sent  an  indefinable  thrill  through  his  veins. 

"  Did  it  occur  to  you  that  the  prisoner  might  have 
fallen  in  by  accident?" 

^  No  ;  he  jumped  in.  He  seemed  in  a  hurry,  and 
frightened.  I  thought  there  was  something  wrong, 
and  hid  behind  a  tree." 

^  "Very  well,"  said  the  attorney.     He  then  ques 
tioned   the  woollen-worker  as   to  his  knowledge  of 


THE  CRISIS  IN  COURT.  333 

Whitcot's  effort  to  prove  that  Ida  was  Burlen's  sister. 
Rudyard  affirmed  that  he  had  been  aware  of  it,  and 
that  the  candidate  was  furious  with  Whitcot,  in  con 
sequence.  Whitcot  had  said  to  witness  that  he 
feared  violence. 

In  the  cross-examination  he  seemed  much  less 
assured.  Ravling' s  inquiries  were  swift:  Rudyard 
was  slow  and  confused  in  his  replies.  "  Why  were 
you  afraid  to  be  seen  at  the  river  ?  "  asked  the  coun 
sel  for  the  defence,  throwing  a  powerful  significance 
into  the  words. 

Rudyard  grew  uneasy  ;  his  gleaming  gray  eyes  fell. 
At  last  he  said  in  a  chill  voice:  "I  ain't  afraid  of 
him  or  any  man.  I  did  n't  want  him  to  see  me : 
that's  all." 

"Oh,"  said  Ravling,  sarcastically;  "perhaps  you 
wouldn't  like  to  have  been  seen  by  anybody,  just 
then.  Was  that  it?" 

Rudyard  glared  at  him  and  refused  to  answer. 

"Were  3*011  on  very  friendly  terms  with  the  de 
ceased?"  the  lawyer  asked. 

The  man,  having  become  exasperated,  answered 
quickly,  with  a  sneer:  "  No.  I  thought  he  was  a 
fool !  "  The  listeners  in  the  court-room  were  visibly- 
shocked  ;  the  jury  assumed  a  wakeful  air ;  old  Mr. 
Whitcot  darted  a  glance  of  astonishment  at  Rudyard, 
the  color  rising  in  his  faded  face  as  if  the  magenta 
scarf  at  his  throat  had  become  fluid  and  unexpectedly 
tinged  the  pale  features  above  it. 

"Ah!  And  how  did  you  form  that  opinion?" 
asked  Ravling,  lightly. 


334  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  he  was.     I  had  my  reasons." 
"And  did  that  have  anything  to  do  with  the  fact, 

that,  on  the  first  day  he  came  here,  you  dogged  him 

at  twilight,  along  the  road  ? " 

"  How  do  you  know  I  did?"  demanded  Rudyard, 

defiantly. 

The  State's  Attorney  rose  to  protect  his  witness, 
and  thundered  out  a  protest. 

"  I  will  alter  the  question,"  said  Ravling,  meekly. 
"  Did  you  recognize  the  deceased,  on  the  evening  of 
the  6th  of  July,  when  you  followed  him  along  "the 
road  from  Pride's?" 

The  witness  allowed  his  eyes  to  turn  towards  Ida, 
then  towards  Timothy  Pride  ;  finally,  they  rested  on 
Burlen.  He  was  reflecting. 

"I  request  that  that  question  be  excluded,"  said 
the  attorney  for  the  prosecution,  again  rising.  The 
court  sustained  the  objection  ;  but  an  impression  had 
evidently  been  made  on  the  jury  and  the  spectators. 

The  defence  proceeded  to  put  various  inquiries 
respecting  Whitcot's  relations  with  Ida,  tending  to 
show  that  the  foreman's  jealousy  had  been  aroused. 
The  answers  gained  were  not  very  satisfactory,  but 
they  showed  in  the  witness  a  desire  to  conceal  some 
thing. 

"  Has  this  got  anything  to  do  with  the  case?" 
asked  the  prosecuting  attorney. 

"  We  hope  to  show  that  it  has  a  great  deal  to  do 
with  it,"  was  the  reply. 

Ravling  had  not  succeeded  in  breaking  down  Rud- 
yard's  testimony,  but  he  had  by  innuendo  produced 


THE   CRISIS  IN   COURT.  335 

the   feeling  that  the  man   was    untrustworthy.     At 
this  point  the  court  adjourned. 

Of  the  hours  of  dread  and  gloom  that  intervened 
before  the  reopening  of  the  court,  it  need  be  said 
only  that  they  brought  to  Editli  new  fears  and  bewil 
derments,  arising  from  the  remarkable  testimony  of 
Rudyard.  She  scarcely  dared  to  ask  herself  how 
this  would  be  confuted,  or  what  would  be  its  final 
effect. 

Meanwhile  a  hurried  interview  took  place  at  night 
between  Ravling  and  the  Boston  reporter,  who  pro 
duced  a  small  and  mysterious  article  which  he  had 
picked  up  in  the  fatal  wood.  He  had  just  been 
completing  a  fresh  examination  of  the  spot,  and  the 
discovery  he  had  made  there  was  so  vital  in  its 
bearing  on  the  case  that  Ravling  at  once  forgave  him 
all  the  annoyance  he  had  caused  by  his  publications. 
Hastening  to  the  jail,  he  consulted  with  his  client 
and  returned  full  of  excitement  to  his  office  ;  after 
which  he  contrived  a  secret  conference  with  Ida, 
whom  he  had  subpoenaed  as  a  witness  for  the  de 
fence. 

The  next  morning  judge,  jury,  lawyers,  and  the 
public  were  all  arrayed  in  their  places  as  if  they  had 
never  moved ;  arid  the  trial  recommenced.  The 
defence  brought  forward  some  routine  evidence  to 
the  good  character  of  the  prisoner.  Buiien  followed, 
telling  his  own  story,  and  remaining  firm  under  cross- 
examination  ;  and  then  Archdale  was  put  on  the 
stand  to  explain  the  "  morbid  conscientiousness  "  of 


336  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

Burlcn's  mind,  as  accounting  for  his  associating  him 
self  with  the  guilt  of  the  murder  because  he  had  wished 
Whitcot  dead.  From  this,  counsel  glided  on  to  dis 
close  through  Archdale  what  Whitcot  had  told  him 
of  Rudyard's  threatening  attitude.  But  here  the 
Government  attorney  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  asked 
wrathfully  whether  the  witnesses  on  his  side  were 
to  be  tried  for  their  lives,  instead  of  the  prisoner. 
"  From  the  first,  your  honor,  there  has  been  a  most 
vicious  assault  by  the  defence  on  this  witness  Rud- 
3*ard,  and  we  cannot  allow  it  to  go  on."  There  was 
a  sharp  contest ;  Ravling  and  his  junior  exerted  all 
their  force,  and  pleaded,  that,  painful  as  it  might 
be  to  even  seem  to  direct  suspicion  towards  an  un- 
accused  person  for  a  moment,  a  monstrous  injustice 
might  be  done  were  they  not  allowed  to  pursue  this 
inquiry.  They  prevailed  at  last,  and  followed  up 
what  they  gained  in  this  way  with  a  brief  statement 
from  Edith. 

She  narrated  her  engagement,  Whitcot's  attempt 
on  the  day  before  his  death  to  estrange  her  from  Bur- 
leu,  and  the  absence  of  any  threat  against  the  engi 
neer  on  Burlen's  part,  even  when  the  perfidy  had 
come  to  light. 

Ida  Hiss  was  called  next.  It  was  a  great  surprise 
to  the  crowd  ;  she  herself,  also,  appeared  half  dazed 
by  the  summons,  and  took  her  place  with  an  expres 
sion  of  anxiety  unfamiliar  to  those  who  had  seen 
most  of  her.  No  one,  perhaps  not  even  she,  knew 
what  she  was  going  to  say ;  but  at  moments  during 
the  morning  she  had  measured  forces  with  Rudyard  in 


THE   CRISIS  IN  COURT.  337 

long,  terrible,  undecipherable  glances,  which  seemed 
to  presage  something  important. 

Ida  began  with  particulars  concerning  the  plan 
which  Whitcot  had  formed  of  proving  her  to  be  the 
sister  of  the  accused.  He  had  tried  to  persuade  her 
to  enter  into  this  plan.  Did  Rudyard  know  of  it? 
Yes,  she  had  told  him  a  little.  Had  the  engineer 
ever  expressed  to  her  any  fear  of  Burlen?  No.  Had 
she  seen  Whitcot  often  ?  Not  very  ;  she  was  afraid 
to?  Why?  Because  Rudyard  was  jealous,  and 
thought  Whitcot  was  making  love  to  her.  Perhaps 
she  had  given  him  some  reason  to  think  so,  —  had 
teased  him  about  it  only  a  few  days  before  the  mur 
der  ;  she  did  n't  know  why ;  out  of  mischief,  she 
supposed.  ' 

Once  more  the  prosecuting  attorney  attacked  the 
line  of  defence,  and  succeeded  in  getting  one  or  two 
questions  and  answers  struck  off  the  record. 

But  at  this  point  something  unforeseen  happened. 
Burlen  (previous!}'  instructed  by  his  counsel)  was 
looking  very  keenly  at  the  witness,  who  apparently 
wavered  before  his  scrutiny.  All  at  once  Ravling 
produced  from  his  breast-pocket  a  small  article,  — 
a  breast-pin  made  of  fine  woven  hair,  —  and  held  it 
up  close  to  her.  u  Is  this  3'ours?  "  he  asked. 

The  girl  uttered  a  gasping  sound,  like  a  stifled 
scream.  u  You  know  !"  she  cried,  trembling.  She 
sought  Burlen  with  a  yearning  gaze  that  quickly  fired 
up  into  a  look  of  supreme  resolution.  "•  He's  inno 
cent!"  she  cried.  Then,  with  hands  thrown  wildly 
across  her  eyes  :  "  Rudyard  did  it !  He  told  me." 
22 


338  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

The  court-room  was  in  absolute  confusion  for  a 
moment  or  two,  people  rising  to  look  over  those  in 
front;  a  hum  of  voices  charged  with  horror,  sur 
prise,  triumph ;  the  State's  Attorney,  in  his  loudest 
tones,  inquiring  what  this  irregular  procedure  meant, 
and  what  was  the  potent  talisman  in  his  learned 
brother's  hand,  which  had  not  yet  been  put  in  evi 
dence. 

"If  the  court  please,  I  will  now  put  this  trinket 
in  evidence,  and  proceed  with  further  testimony," 
Ravi  ing  promptly  declared. 

Ida  identified  it  as  an  ornament  made  of  her  moth 
er's  hair,  and  belonging  to  her.  Order  being  re 
stored,  Ravling  said  to  her:  "  State  what  you  know 
as  to  the  commission  of  the  murder."  Despite  the 
clarion  vigor  of  his  tone,  his  voice  quivered.  lie 
was  not  quite  sure  of  his  witness. 

In  few  words,  however,  —  rapidly,  as  though  fate 
were  on  her  track  to  stop  the  revelation,  yet  with  a 
wild,  fixed  energy,  —  the  girl  told  how,  on  her  irre 
sponsible  and  mischievous  incitement,  Rudyard  had 
let  loose  his  ferocity,  had  met,  overpowered,  and 
killed  Whitcot  in  the  wood,  and  had  then  told  her  of 
his  deed  and  besought  her  to  fly  the  place  with  him, 
which  she  refused  to  do. 

All  eyes  were  bent  on  the  woollen-worker ;  voices 
began  to  exclaim,  "  Look  !  look  !  "  He  sat  with  his 
head  stretched  .forward,  while  his  body  still  leaned 
back  cravenly  upon  the  bench.  His  hands  clutched 
and  tugged  at  the  wood  of  the  seat  on  either  side 
of  him ;  his  eyes  seemed  to  retreat  under  his  fore- 


THE  CRISIS  IN  COURT.  339 

head,  and  a  glistening  moisture  came  out  on  his 
face.  Those  nearest  drew  away  from  him,  while, 
with  an  oath,  he  muttered  unsteadily,  "  It's  a  lie ! " 

"  Look  at  that  man,  gentlemen  of  the  jury  !  "  cried 
Ravling,  with  outstretched  arm. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  remained  motionless, 
and  no  longer  attempted  to  interfere.  Ravling  went 
on  swiftly  to  prove  that  the  breast-pin  had  been 
taken  by  Rudyard,  a  few  days  before  the  murder, 
and  was  carried  in  his  pocket ;  also  that  it  had  been 
found  by  the  reporter  on  the  spot  where  the  crime 
was  done,  and  that  it  was  blood-stained. 

The  jury,  without  rising,  gave  their  verdict :  "  NOT 

GUILTY." 

Rudyard,  attempting  to  stride  out  of  the  room 
while  the  evidence  was  finishing,  was  arrested  and 
taken  to  jail. 


340  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 


XXVIII. 

REUNION   AND    SEPARATION. 

BURSTING  from  the  prisoner's  dock,  Burlen 
crossed  the  court-room  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
approached  the  flushed,  startled  woman  whose  timely 
utterance  had  saved  him. 

"Thyrsa!  you  are  Thyrsa, — sister!"  he  cried. 
"  I  knew  it  when  they  brought  me  that  little  orna 
ment  :  I  remembered.  Oh,  Thyrsa  !  " 

She  shuddered  and  held  back  for  an  instant,  but 
over  her  handsome,  shadowed  face,  —  so  hard  be 
fore  in  its  secretive,  complacent  insolence,  —  there 
was  stealing  a  swift  and  peculiar  change :  the  ten 
derness  of  an  affection  long  sealed  up  or  perverted 
crept  into  it  with  the  softness  of  young  springtime. 
She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  —  poor 
thing !  —  for  an  instant  it  seemed  as  if  she  had 
never  really  been  beyond  the  reach  of  that  strong, 
brotherly  embrace  that  now  enfolded  her.  "  I  am 
so  glad !  "  she  sighed. 

So  it  was  this  unhappy,  outcast  sister  —  she 
whom  he  had  imagined  would  disgrace  him  for  life 
—  who  first  welcomed  him  back  to  life,  and  rescued 
him  from  the  greater  shame  that  had  overcast  his 
horizon.  And  Edith  stood  by,  silently  watching. 


REUNION  AND   SEPARATION.          341 

"  You  must  come  with  us  and  stay  with  us  now," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  holding  out  her  hand. 

Thyrsa  looked  at  her  with  deep,  sorrowful  eyes, 
and  shook  her  head.  "  You  are  a  good  woman," 
she  said;  "  but  oh,  I  cannot !  I  cannot!  There  is 
something  here  —  "  She  made  a  strange  gesture,  as 
if  she  would  have  torn  out  some  unseen  root  of  pain 
from  her  breast,  to  fling  it  away.  "  You  never  could 
understand  ;  you  could  n't  really  love  me.  I  will  try 
to  be  good  and  do  something  for  you  and  Robert ; 
but  I  must  n't  stay  with  you." 

"Yes,  always,"  said  I3urlen,  gravety.  "Your 
place  is  with  me,  now,  Thyrsa,  and  mine  with  you." 
When  they  were  alone  he  asked,  "  Why  did  you  re 
fuse  to  claim  me  so  long  ?  " 

"Can't  you  see?"  she  began,  almost  complain- 
ingly.  "  God  knows,"  she  went  on  in  a  different 
tone,  "I  wanted  to  get  back  to  3"ou ;  but — I  knew 
I  was  a  dark  cloud ;  there  was  no  hope  for  me. 
Wiry  should  I  agree  to  come  and  spoil  your  bright 
prospects?  But  now,  dear  Rob,  I've  been  able  to 
help  you.  When  I  found  myself  there  in  court  and 
you  really  in  danger,  I  had  to  let  3*011  know  who  I 
was.  And,  oh,  that  horrible  secret  of  Rudyard's  ! 
I  should  have  died  if  I  'd  kept  it  much  longer.  It 
seems  like  a  fever.  I  was  afraid,  at  first,  —  afraid 
of  him,  —  and  hoping  you  would  come  off  without 
your  knowing  I  was  your  sister." 

Burlcn  had  taken  her  at  once  to  Pride's ;  but, 
although  she  was  docile  enough  to  consent  to  that, 
she  would  not  agree  to  any  association  with  the  rest 


342  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

that  might  embarrass  them,  and  so  remained  in  her 
own  room  or  with  Mrs.  Pride.  The  situation  was 
more  than  awkward  ;  it  was  acutely  painful  and  har 
assing  for  all  concerned,  and  Burlen  speedily  became 
aware  that  out  of  it  would  probably  spring  some  de 
cided  and  serious  change  affecting  his  engagement 
with  Edith. 

"  How  sad  you  seem,  still ! "  Edith  said  to  him,  as 
they  stood  at  the  porch  of  the  old  house  that  even 
ing.  "  Oughtn't  3'ou  to  be  happ}T,  now  that  every 
thing  has  turned  out  so  well,  and  you  have  found 
Thyrsa?" 

He  looked  long  and  thoughtfully  at  her ;  but  for 
all  the  tenderness  that  she  saw  in  his  eyes,  the  look 
seemed  rather  to  separate  than  to  draw  them  nearer. 
*•'  I  am  so  altered,  Edith,"  he  answered  in  a  voice 
level  and  listless,  and  not  graduated  even  to  the 
intonations  of  despondency.  "  This  ordeal  that  I 
have  been  through  —  I  don't  know  what  it  has  done 
to  me." 

"How?"  she  asked,  growing  anxious. 

"  In  the  way  of  taking  all  the  jo}-  and  color  out  of 
some  things,  that  before  were  the  fullest  of  delight. 
I  'm  like  those  clouds  up  there.  Sec  !  Imagine  sun 
light  on  them,  and  you  have  the  difference  between 
what  I  was  and  what  I  am." 

Above  the  locusts  the  clouds,  as  she  saw,  were 
feel)!}'  silvered  by  a  new  moon,  —  as  if  they  were  the 
same  that  had  floated  there  during  the  da}-,  but  had 
now  been  transplanted  to  some  other  world,  and  like 
ghosts  were  looking  back  with  infinite  sadness  on 
this  one. 


REUNION  AND   SEPARATION.          343 

"That  feeling  will  pass  awa}',  I'm  sure,"  she 
urged.  "  It 's  natural  that  you  should  be  depressed 
now,  but — " 

He  laid  one  hand  on  hers  as  she  touched  his 
shoulder  with  it.  "  How  good  it  is  to  be  free  and 
with  3*011  again  ! "  he  exclaimed,  though  not  vehe- 
menth'.  "  But  to-morrow  —  to-morrow  we  will  talk 
of  these  other  things.  I  don't  yet  know  how  to  tell 
you  all  that 's  in  my  mind." 

In  the  morning  an  incident  of  some  -importance 
led  to  the  deferring  of  this  intention.  There  had,  of 
course,  been  a  great  revulsion  in  Savagensian  circles 
on  the  sudden  and  dramatic  ending  of  the  trial,  and 
the  church  committee  held  an  extraordinary  meeting 
without  delay,  to  prepare  congratulatory  resolu 
tions  for  the  victorious  defendant.  A  week  before, 
no  one  in  the  village  had  dared  to  uphold  a  firm 
belief  in  the  innocence  of  Buiien ;  but  now,  with  a 
promptness  in  making  reparation  which  is  perhaps 
a  national  trait,  and  with  a  readiness  to  act  showily 
on  emotions  soon  to  be  forgotten,  which  may  pos- 
siblj-  without  injustice  be  put  in  the  same  categoiy, 
the  committee  decided  to  invite  the  acquitted  candi 
date  to  become  pastor  of  the  Second  Church.  Mar 
shall  Stubbs,  hearing  of  this,  manifested  his  disgust 
as  far  as  seemed  politic.  But  the  brief  era  of  his 
importance  as  the  chief  Government  witness  was 
over,  and  after  collecting  an  exaggerated  bill  for  his 
services  in  that  capacity  he  vanished.  The  church 
committee  meanwhile  proceeded  to  Pride's,  and 
waited  on  Burlen. 


344  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

His  colloquy  with  them  was  brief.  He  accepted 
their  offer  at  once,  for  a  year. 

When  Archdale  was  informed  of  this  he  made 
vigorous  objection,  and  again  displayed  the  advan 
tages  of  the  assistant-pastorate  in  Boston  ;  but  the 
young  man  was  not  to  be  dissuaded.  "  I  have 
thought  it  all  over,"  was  his  reply.  "  Circumstance 
brought  about  a  strange  crisis  in  my  life  here,  arid 
seems  to  have  pointed  out  this  spot  where  I  've  been 
vindicated  as  a  good  one  to  begin  my  true  career  in. 
My  ambition  is  n't  merely  geographical  or  pecuniary  ; 
and  here  at  Savage's  I  shall  find  earth  and  heaven, 
virtue  and  sin,  all  represented.  Those  are  the  ele 
ments  I  should  have  to  deal  with  anywhere.  I  will 
meet  them  here." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right,"  said  Edith,  on  his  put 
ting  the  decision  before  her ;  but  there  was  perhaps  a 
slight  note  of  apprehension  observable  in  her  voice. 

"There  are  things  to  consider  about  our  future," 
he  replied,  gravely.  "  Let  us  walk,  this  afternoon, 
and  then  we  shall  be  free  to  say  all  that  we  wish." 

It  was  October,  and  the  leaves  had  begun  to  fall 
early.  Here  and  there,  like  scattered  remnants  or 
memories  of  more  prosperous  times,  spots  and  dashes 
of  vivid,  reckless  color  were  retained  by  the  boughs ; 
but  in  general  the  landscape  was  reduced  to  a  meagre 
and  sinewy  aspect.  The  sky  assumed  new  promi 
nence,  and  had  become  a  far  more  important  element 
of  the  scene  than  it  had  been  three  weeks  before. 
Instead  of  walking  through  lofty,  leafy  alleys  as  at 
that  time,  the  lovers  found  themselves  unexpectedly 


REUNION  AND   SEPARATION.          345 

exposed  to  the  broad  overhanging  surface  of  the 
heavens  when  among  the  trees,  —  as  if  a  new  light,  a 
new  revelation,  had  suddenly  come  over  the  world, 
bringing  celestial  supremacy  into  clearer  notice. 
Earth  seemed  to  have  shrunk,  to  have  flattened  and 
grown  chilled  with  a  premonition  of  winter  ;  the  sky, 
in  its  new  prominence,  wore  a  vigilant  look.  On 
this  afternoon  it  did  not  permit  a  single  cloud  to 
obscure  its  scrutiny  of  things  below  :  there  was  even 
something  about  it  approaching  the  vindictive  and 
merciless. 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  Burlen,  "that  you  could 
be  content  here  ?  " 

"  If  you  think  you  would  be  happy,"  was  her 
answer. 

He  was  silent,  and  sighed.  Then,  "It  isn't  that 
that  I  fear.  I  have  been  thinking  that  I  should  have 
too  much  happiness." 

She  had  fancied  he  was  speaking  in  play,  but 
something  in  his  demeanor  jarred  on  this  idea. 
"  How  clo  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  "just  what  has  been 
passing  in  my  mind  during  the  time  of  my  accusa 
tion  and  imprisonment.  That  charge  of  murder  was 
like  an  earthquake  shock.  A  single  flash  of  anger 
was  what  led  to  such  an  awful  suspicion,  and  it 
clouded  over  all  my  triumph  in  your  love  and  put 
me  for  a  time  into  the  dust.  If  it  had  n't  been  for 
this,  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  separate  my 
self  in  thought  from  you,  so  as  to  see  what  I  now  do. 
But  now  it  seems  to  me  that  I  was  wrong  in  seeking 


34G  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

for  the  happiness  that  other  men  find.  The  mere 
fact  that  I  loved  and  had  won  your  iove,  involved 
me  in  all  the  turmoil  of  motives  and  passions  that  the 
world  keeps  up,  and  so  it  was  possible  for  the  sus 
picion  of  hatred  and  deadly  crime  to  fasten  on  me." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  be  free?"  she  asked  slowly,  in 
subdued  tones,  without  flinching. 

Where  the}'  stood,  some  outstretched  branches 
hung  their  few  leaves  like  flashes  of  dull  lire  against 
the  dim  blue  distances  ;  Monadnoc  Lry  across  the 
valley  at  their  left,  dissolving  the  glowing  tints  of  its 
woods  in  a  serene  depth  of  beryl ;  and  not  far  from 
them  the  desert-spot  shone  under  the  waning  sun. 
Burlen  was  recalling  their  former  speculations  upon 
the  semblance  of  those  two  figures  whom  they  had 
supposed  to  be  on  the  eve  of  a  parting. 

"  I  can't  answer  3-011  in  one  word,"  he  at  last  be 
gan  to  say.  u  1  do  not  wish  to  be  free,  and  yet  I  feel 
it  my  dut}',  now,  to  be  so.  If  you  leave  me,  — if  I 
lose  you,  —  "  the  agon}'  in  his  face  showred  her  in  an 
instant  what  he  would  have  said.  "I  can  hardly 
endure  it,"  he  cried,  "  now  that  I  speak  of  it !  My 
heart  seems  to  break  down  and  leave  me  nothing,  — 
not  even  hope  for  my  chosen  work,  —  if  I  must  do  it 
without  you." 

The  pain,  the  hidden  anger  perhaps,  which  had  at 
first  shot  its  twinges  through  Edith,  was  converted 
into  pit}'  and  a  troubled  33*111  path}'  for  her  lover  on 
seeing  the  strange,  unlooked-for  grief  into  which  he 
had  fallen.  "  Tell  me  all  that  you  feel,  and  let  me 
help  you,  Robert,"  she  said  quickly.  "  I  know  that 


REUNION  AND  SEPARATION.          347 

I'm  not  great  enough  to  be  your  companion.  I 
might  often  fail.  You  remember  I  had  great  doubts 
of  mj'self  when  you  first  asked  me.  I  have  had  other 
ambitions.  I  wanted  to  shine,  you  know,  in  —  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no!  it's  not  that.  It  is  not  any  of 
those  reasons,"  he  interposed.  "And  it's  not  only 
the  duty  to  myself  I  've  already  mentioned,  to  keep 
clear  of  entanglement  in  a  love  and  interests  of  my 
own  that  might  make  me  less  useful  to  others. 
There  are  other  duties,  too ;  the  duty  to  Thyrsa  and 
the  duty  to  }*ou,  —  to  free  you  from  the  dull  wretch 
edness  of  a  family  tie  with  her,  and  to  let  you  find 
some  wider  and  brighter  life  in  the  big  world  than  I 
can  give  you  here." 

Edith's  courage,  too,  began  to  fail.  "  You  talk  to 
me  of  these  cold  things,"  she  said,  the  tears  begin 
ning  to  sparkle  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  I  have  always 
felt  that  in  some  way  destiny  would  drive  us  apart !  " 
"  Not  destiny,"  he  protested,  "  for  if  we  do  not 
carry  out  all  that  we  hoped,  it  will  be  from  something 
higher  than  destiny,  if  }'ou  mean  by  it  an  uncon 
trollable  fate.  It  will  be  from  choice,  because  we 
think  it  is  better ;  and  that  is  character,  conscience. 
That  controls  even  fate." 

She  regarded  him  carefully,  and  with  regained 
composure  asked:  "Do  you  really  think  I  have 
failed  towards  you  since  this  last  trouble  came  to 
you?" 

"  You  have  been  perfect  in  wish  and  action, 
Edith.  Where  should  I  look  for  my  ideal  of  woman 
hood  if  not  to  you  ?  " 


348  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"  And  would  it  make  no  difference,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  with  your  notion  of  duty  to  me,  if  I  were 
to  say  that  I  am  ready  to  make  every  sacrifice  that 
may  be  needed,  and  wish  as  much  as  you  can  to 
treat  Thyrsa  like  a  sister  ?  " 

"  It  could  make  no  difference,"  he  said,  as  if  try 
ing  to  assume  a  coldness  foreign  to  him.  "  My  duty 
to  you  would  be  the  same,  however  }'ou  might  wish 
me  to  ignore  it."  The  desire  to  be  understood  got 
the  better  of  his  assumption,  however,  and  he  went 
on.  "  The  duties,  I  think,  are  all  bound  up  together. 
If  it  is  an  inspiration,  —  this  thought  that  I  should 
devote  myself  to  ministering  to  my  kind,  —  I  must 
follow  it  out.  Once  I  believed  that  I  must  give  up 
everything  and  search  for  Thyrsa.  Then  I  found 
that  there  might  be  a  larger  duty,  to  the  race.  And 
now  again,  when  I  have  been  fancying  that  it  was 
essential  to  my  mission  that  1,  too,  should  have  love 
and  happiness  and  a  home,  so  as  to  learn  in  my  own 
life  what  others  need,  it  once  more  seems  to  me 
that  I  must  make  renunciation.  I  'm  not  propound 
ing  a  theorjr.  I  should  never  lay  down  a  law  for 
other  men.  They  must  discover  their  own  best  way 
of  doing  the  best  work,  and  I  mine.  But  if  you 
have  ever  believed  what  you  admired  in  my  poor 
sermons,  —  why,  if  I  believe  it  myself,  —  I  must  act 
on  what  seems  to  me  the  highest  inspiration.  Don't 
you  yourself  think  that 's  true  ?  " 

"I  think  you  must  follow  your  highest  inspira 
tion,"  she  answered.  She  scarcely  felt  herself  strong 
enough  to  say  more ;  at  the  same  time  Burlen  was 


REUNION  AND  SEPARATION.          349 

aware  of  an  access  of  courage  and  brightness  in  her 
effect  upon  him.  "You  shall  be  free,"  he  heard 
her  add. 

He  took  her  hand  and,  holding  it  in  both  his,  hung 
over  it,  reading  every  delicate  line  on  its  flexile 
surface,  as  if  he  traced  there  the  mystery  of  life  and 
death,  of  woe  and  blessing,  and  some  ineffable  an 
swer  to  the  riddle  involved  in  these.  But  the  pro 
found  impulse  of  his  passion  for  her  rose  again  and 
almost  mastered  him ;  the  bitterness  of  denying 
himself  that  conquering  sweetness  of  which  he  had 
become  conqueror  on  the  mountain-top  was  well- 
nigh  unendurable.  "Ah,  who  could  have  imagined 
it,  a  few  days  ago  !  "  he  cried  brokenly.  "  Could  I 
have  foreseen  it  —  I  who  have  loved  }TOU  so  ?  " 

"We  must  not  wait  here,"  she  said  hurried^, 
and  drew  away  her  hand.  "  It  is  not  good  for  us  ;  " 
but  she  gazed  at  him  as  if  her  eyes,  at  least,  would 
never  depart  from  before  him.  How  gentle  they 
were,  how  sad !  And  how,  in  their  gentleness,  they 
burned  into  his  very  heart !  It  was  strange,  now, 
to  look  back  to  the  time  when  they  had  been  proud 
e^yes,  and  when  this  sweet  face,  which  for  a  little 
while  belonged  to  him,  had  seemed  far-off  and  care 
lessly,  C}Tnicall3' content  in  its  isolation.  "Let  us 
part  bravely,"  she  adjured  him,  as  he  hesitated. 

They  offered  no  last  embrace,  no  farewell  kiss. 
It  was  only  a  strong  pressure  of  two  hands,  a  look 
of  sublime  frankness  and  mutual  honor,  with  which 
they  parted. 

Perhaps  if  they  had  allowed  themselves  a  syllable 


350  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

more,  the  least  additional  endearment,  the  strained 
courage  of  both  would  have  snapped,  and  they  would 
have  remained  together.  Never,  I  am  sure,  was 
there  a  stranger  severance  of  the  compact  between 
two  lovers.  Outwardly  cold,  abrupt,  possibly  need 
less,  there  was  a  peculiar  exultation  about  it  which 
sustained  them  for  a  time ;  yet  anguish  was  busy 
within  them.  Faintly  wafted  to  them  came  the 
melancholy,  lingering  note  of  a  pewee,  the  saddest 
sound  of  autumn,  the  audible  "Alas!"  of  departing 
summer ;  but,  otherwise,  the  hush  of  a  trance  was 
in  the  air.  Above,  leaned  the  cold,  vigilant  sky ; 
and  that  wide  aerial  field  the  sunset— with  no 
wonted  appanage  of  clouds  to  rumor  and  repeat 
its  glory  across  half  the  heavens  —  was  contracted 
into  a  lonely  blaze  on  one  particular  small  arc  of  the 
horizon. 

As  they  thridded  their  way  back  among  the  de 
nuded  trees,  the  occasional  light,  dead  fall  of  a  leaf 
sent  through  Burlen  a  shudder,  as  if  it  were  the 
dropping  of  dust  iuto  a  grave. 


CERTAINTIES  AND   UNCERTAINTIES.     351 


XXIX. 

CERTAINTIES   AND    UNCERTAINTIES. 

THAT  evening,  Edith  and  Burlen  both  received 
notes  from  Ravling,  whom  the}'  had  not  seen 
since  the  brief  congratulation  that  passed  at  the  time 
of  the  trial.  He  wrote  to  say  that  he  had  been 
obliged  at  once  to  go  to  Boston  without  telling  them 
in  person  how  much  happiness  he  wished  them  ;  "  but 
I  am  sure  it  is  in  store  for  you,"  said  the  letter  to 
Edith,  "without  any  need  of  aid  from  my  wishes." 
That  to  Burlen  contained  these  words:  "Your  life 
is  free  now ;  the  shadows  have  all  been  driven  away 
at  once.  I  look  for  sterling  deeds  and  a  fine  ex 
ample  from  you." 

Burlen  handed  the  note  in  silence  to  Edith,  as  he 
took  hers  to  read.  "  Yes,"  she  said  presently,  "your 
life  is  free  ! " 

At  this  instant  a  stifling  doubt  attacked  the  young 
minister :  he  wondered  whether  he  had  acted  under 
some  morbid  infatuation  ;  whether  after  all  the  sac 
rifice  that  he  was  making  might  be  needless ;  and 
whether  he  had  been  generous  or  ungenerous  to 
Edith.  To  receive  these  words  from  his  defeated 
rival,  just  at  the  time  when  he  himself  had  surren 
dered  the  result  of  victory,  was  terribly  trying. 


352  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

"  You  are  free,  too,  Edith,"  he  answered.  "  To 
me  your  happiness  is  dearer  than  my  own,  by  far; 
but  I  believe  I  am  serving  it.  At  least  I  try  to 
believe  that.  If  I  can  ever  do  anything  —  " 

She  saw  that  he  trembled,  and  that  he  was  on  the 
point  of  breaking  down.  "  If  you  will  write  to  me, 
Robert,  that  will  be  a  great  deal.  I  shall  want  to 
know  of  everything  }-ou're  doing  here." 

"Ah,  Edith,  that  was  what  I  had  hoped!"  He 
drew  a  little  nearer.  "Why  — child,"  he  said,  im 
pulsively  —  "  I'll  say  once,  my  darling —  do  I  seem 
to  you  wrong ?  Am  I  doing  you  an  injury  ?  " 

"  You  are  doing  right,"  she  said.  "  But  oh,  how 
can  I  bear  it  all?"  That  cry  of  her  aching  heart 
escaped  unawares  ;  but  she  summoned  her  fortitude 
again.  "  Good-by,  Robert.  Do  not  tell  papa  till 
we  go  away.  I  must  leave  here  to-morrow." 

Nevertheless,  Archdale  saw  that  something  was 
weighing  heavily  upon  them.  The  next  day  Edith 
was  unable  to  stir ;  but  Burlen  went  with  Thyrsa  to 
the  village,  and  engaged  temporary  quarters  to  be 
used  until  he  should  move  into  the  parsonage.  "But 
we  shall  see  you  soon  at  Marie  ?  "  queried  Archdale. 
"And  oh  — of  course  you  will  bid  us  good-by  to 
morrow,  at  the  station." 

Burlen  turned  his  head  away.  "I  shall  not  be 
coming  to  Marie,"  he  said,  huskily. 

"  Not  coming?  What  can  that  mean?  Has  Edith 
broken  with  you  ?  " 

"  We  can  never  marry,  Doctor  Archdale." 

The  elder  man  drew   himself  up  with  austerity. 


CERTAINTIES  AND  UNCERTAINTIES.     353 

"That  will  need  further  inquiiy  and  explanation, 
Robert.  Do  I  understand  that  you.  reject  the  en 
gagement,  after  all  that  she  has  been  called  upon  to 
suffer  for  your  sake  ?  " 

"Understand  what  you  will,"  retorted  Burlen, 
proudly.  "  I  am  obeying  my  duties.  Edith  and  I 
agree." 

Archdale  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  his 
daughter  for  further  knowledge  of  the  situation.  At 
first  he  repulsed  it  with  impatience.  "The  boy  is 
beside  himself!  "  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  all  a  chimera. 
The  mischief,  so  far  as  concerns  Thyrsa,  is  done : 
that  can't  be  helped.  I  would  have  saved  you  from 
it,  if  I  could,  but  now  that  she  is  identified  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it.  As  for  this  notion  of  breaking 
the  engagement  —  don't  you  see  the  injury  done  to 
yourself?  But  it  all  arises  from  inexperience :  you 
neither  of  you  know  the  world." 

"  And  perhaps  the  world  does  n't  know  us"  hinted 
Edith,  mildly. 

So,  little  by  little,  it  became  manifest  to  her  father 
that  the  careful  fabric  of  his  dreams  based  on  Burlen 
must  undergo  a  complete  remodelling,  if  indeed  it  was 
not  already  crumbled  beyond  hope  of  reconstruction. 
Much  in  the  same  wa}',  there  came  to  the  young 
minister  also  a  clearer  perception  from  day  to  day 
of  the  desolation  that  now  surrounded  him.  When 
he  had  seen  the  train  that  carried  Edith  away 
disappear  down  the  track  of  the  little  sylvan  rail 
road  which  only  three  months  ago  had  brought 
him  hither  in  so  happy  and  expectant  a  mood,  he 
23 


354  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

began  to  understand  to  how  lonely  a  life  he  had 
consigned  himself,  what  a  terrible  vacancy  remained 
for  him  to  fill  with  abstract  inspiration ;  and  he 
shrank  before  it.  Treacherous  crevices  of  doubt  and 
weakness  revealed  themselves  in  the  foundation  of 
courage  and  idealism  which  he  had  thought  so  solid. 
He  turned  away,  sick  and  dispirited,  to  take  his  place 
in  the  unpromising  home  which  Thyrsa  and  he  were 
to  make  together,  and  a  sarcastic  smile  rose  to  his 
lips  as  his  mind  went  back  to  the  day  of  his  gradu 
ating  address  at  Marie.  "  This  is  not  much  like 
enthusiasm."  he  muttered  to  himself. 

Society  was  naturally  shocked  at  the  whole  affair, 
—  the  unpleasant  complication  into  which  Edith  had 
been  drawn  by  her  connection  with  Burlen,  and  the 
breaking  of  the  engagement  afterward.  "But  of 
course  nothing  else  was  possible,"  Mrs.  Savland  took 
every  occasion  to  say  to  her  friends,  "  after  such  a 
dreadful  scandal  with  the  sister,  and  the  murder  and 
arrest,  and  all  that,  you  know.  It 's  very  unfortunate 
for  the  poor  3'oung  man,  I  admit  —  such  a  promising 
young  preacher,  too  !  No  one  can  be  sorrier  for  him 
than  I ;  but  3-011  '11  agree  with  me,  I  'm  sure,  that 
Edith  did  the  wisest  thing,  and  probably  the  kindest 
thing  towards  him,  in  breaking  off  the  engagement." 
She  never  for  a  moment  allowed  it  to  be  supposed 
that  the  loosing  of  the  tie  had  been  the  result  of 
Burlen's  decision.  Unfortunately  for  her,  Edith  would 
not  support  these  tactics.  She  had  little  to  say  to 
any  one ;  but  when  she  spoke  to  Viola  and  a  few 


CERTAINTIES  AND  UNCERTAINTIES.     355 

others  with  reference  to  the  history,  she  distinctly 
made  known  the  grounds  on  which  the  marriage  had 
been  abandoned. 

The  topic,  for  a  while,  was  in  vogue  among  Edith's 
Boston  friends :  they  included  it  with  plaques  and 
rare  porcelain,  scientific  lectures  and  Cambridge 
gossip,  and  the  latest  musical  virtuoso  or  the  newest 
critical  utterance  on  Wordsworth,  as  being  adapted 
to  refined  debate,  which  —  it  was  understood  —  must 
never  become  very  earnest.  It  became  the  fashion 
to  sustain  any  one  of  several  conflicting  views 
about  it,  which  ladies  displayed  like  the  approved 
shades  of  ribbon  for  that  season,  —  effective  enough 
until  the}'  should  go  out  of  date. 

One  day  in  November  Ravling  went  to  see  Viola, 
and  found  her  just  rising  from  the  piano.  A  tall 
young  gentleman  with  a  white  forehead,  and  a  violin 
in  his  hand,  stood  near  the  instrument.  It  was  the 
Rev.  Franklin  Bland. 

"Ah, "said  the  lawyer,  with  his  usual  suavity, 
u  I  did  n't  know  you  had  come  to  town.  Are  you 
making  us  a  visit,  or  —  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  ! "  said  the  clergyman,  lightly  ;  "  I  've 
come  to  stay.  There  was  a  poor  young  fellow  who 
wanted  a  place,  and  I  told  my  handful  up  at  Savage's 
that  if  they  would  keep  up  the  little  church  I  'd  pa}T 
his  salary  for  a  while.  Fine  chance  for  a  sacrifice 
on  my  part,  you  know.  But,"  he  concluded,  smiling 
significantly,  "I'm  almost  reconciled  to  the  change. 
There  would  have  been  a  vacancy  there  soon,  any 
way  :  death  from  ennui,  you  know." 


356  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

Before  long  the  Reverend  Franklin  took  his  leave 
gayly  ;  but  Ravling  for  some  reason  imagined  that  he 
would  not  have  gone  so  soon,  if  the  interruption  had 
not  occurred. 

"Have  3'ou  heard  anything,  lately,  from  Miss 
Archdale?"  he  asked,  when  the  outer  door  had 
closed. 

"  Yes,  she  's  coming  to  Boston,  later  in  the  winter. 
She  will  be  with  me." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that.  I  wonder  how  she  is. 
How  strangely  it  has  turned  out,  —  that  affair  with 
Burlen.  I  got  to  admire  him  greatlj',  at  the  time  of 
the  trial ;  but  I  confess  I  don't  quite  understand  his 
conduct.  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,"  said  Viola,  bending  her  head 
slightly  sideward,  as  if  she  were  critically  examining 
a  picture  with  regard  to  its  "  values."  "Edith  is 
quite  as  puzzling.  She  seems  reconciled." 

"  Perhaps  it's  all  right,"  Ravling  conceded  ;  "but, 
judging  for  myself,  I  should  say  he  had  been  enor 
mously  selfish  about  it,  in  some  ways.  He  's  a  man 
of  ambition,  — pure  and  spiritual  ambition,  I  grant ; 
but  I  remember  thinking,  before  now,  with  reference 
to  him,  that  such  a  man  might  be  as  selfish  as  a 
smaller  one.  And  then  it  strikes  me  —  by  the  way, 
it  was  to  3'ou  I  was  sa}*ing  something  of  the  kind  at 
Marie,  this  last  summer.  It  strikes  me  that  he's 
mistaking  a  morbid  and  temporaiy  state  of  mind  for 
the  prompting  of  that  heroic  enthusiasm  he  talked 
to  us  about.  —  And  so  you  think  Miss  Archdale  is 
content?" 


CERTAINTIES  AND    UNCERTAINTIES.    357 

Viola  found  it  necessary  to  add  a  corrective  touch 
to  her  criticism.  "  That  may  not  be  the  right  word," 
she  said ;  ' '  but  I  think  she  has  accepted  her  life  as  it 
is.  I  don't  believe  she'll  ever  many.  I  can  appre 
ciate  her  condition  exactly.  It 's  not  happy,  yet  it 's 
not  entirely  despairing.  Ah,"  — Viola  gave  signs  of 
growing  sentimental,  —  "I  know  what  it  must  be! 
That  exquisite  line  of  Byron's  gives  exactly  what  I 
mean  — 

"'With  just  enough  of  life  to  feel  life's  pain.' 

Have  you  never  had  such  times  in  your  life,  Mr. 
Ravling?" 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,"  he  responded,  a  little  brusquely, 
and  began  to  ruffle  his  beard  as  he  frowned  at  the 
carved  piano-bench  across  the  room.  "When  will 
she  be  here  ?  "  he  asked  abruptly,  getting  up. 

' '  In  December,  I  think."  Viola  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  sort  of  meek  apprehension,  as  if  divining 
that  he  had  conceived  some  new  hope  concerning 
Edith. 

To  Ravling  she  seemed  at  that  instant  so  pretty  in 
her  infantile  calm,  with  her  fair  hair  and  the  dark- 
green  velvet  walking-dress  in  which  she  had  come  in 
before  Mr.  Eland's  arrival ;  she  was  so  patiently 
waiting  for  something  in  life  that  had  not  been  at 
tained  ;  it  was  so  clear  that  she  admired  him,  —  that, 
for  a  moment  or  two,  he  half  fancied  he  could  place 
himself  at  her  feet  and  ask  her  to  discard  her  frail 
sentimentality  in  favor  of  an  every- day,  practical 
affection.  "I  'm  certain,"  he  mused,  u  that  that  fel- 


358  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

low  Bland  means  to  do  something  of  the  sort ;  "  and 
the  reflection  inspired  in  him  a  transient  jealousy. 
The  next  instant,  however,  he  held  out  his  hand  and 
said,  "  Good-by." 

Viola  ran  upstairs  as  soon  as  he  had  left  her,  and 
began  to  write  a  sonnet,  which  she  timidly  hoped 
might  distantly  recall  Petrarca  or  Mrs.  Browning  — 
if  it  should  ever  be  published.  This  was,  with  her, 
a  period  of  much  mental  activity.  She  had  a  good 
many  little  poems  laid  away  in  a  scented  drawer,  to 
which  she  sometimes  fled  for  consolation  ;  and  she 
was  debating  with  herself  in  these  days  whether  she 
should  get  them  printed  at  her  own  expense.  They 
were  of  two  sorts ;  and  the  question  that  disturbed 
her  was,  ought  she  to  select  the  pallidly  beautiful 
ones  and  issue  them  in  a  vellum  cover  with  gold 
lettering,  or  put  together  those  which  were  pictur 
esquely  passionate,  and  bring  them  out  with  a  "  col 
orful  "  binding  of  eccentric  design  ?  She  could  not 
decide ;  but  at  last,  during  the  winter,  it  was  whis 
pered  around  that  she  was  soon  to  become  an  author 
ess,  and  there  duly  appeared  a  small  book  with  broad 
margins  and  ragged  edges,  called  "-Plumelets  From 
The  Poets,"  —  a  selection  from  New  England  writers, 
with  appreciative  notes  and  a  chaste  introduction, 
in  which  the  poets  after  being  picked  had  their  feath 
ers  returned  to  them  in  the  handsomest  manner. 

After  an  interval,  Edith  began  to  receive  letters 
from  Buiien.  Sometimes  the}'  contained  details  of 
his  ordinary  duties  and  trials,  —  the  narrowness  and 


CERTAINTIES  AND  UNCERTAINTIES.     359 

the  prejudices  among  his  people  that  obstructed 
him,  or  the  fine  traits  and  encouraging  things  that 
he  met  with  here  and  there.  "  It  occasionally 
seems  belittling,"  he  said,  in  one,  "  to  shut  myself 
in  to  this  narrow  range  ;  but  it  is  the  dry  soil  which 
needs  rain,  and  why  should  n't  I  expend  myself  where 
refreshing  and  fructifying  influences  so  seldom  come? 
To  do  so  must  ultimately  bring  a  result  proportioned 
to  the  cost.  Self-denial  is  a  duty  with  regard  to  in 
tellectual  passion  —  the  passion  for  influence  or  fame 
—  as  well  as  with  regard  to  other  kinds. 

"In  this  country  especially,  perhaps,  we  measure 
a  man's  ability,  or  the  strength  of  his  alliance  with 
divine  power,  by  his  capactty  to  impress  great 
masses  of  people.  It  is  a  serious  error;  for  that 
test,  though  good  in  some  things,  is  crude.  So  we 
are  taught  to  push  ourselves  with  the  crowd,  when 
we  ought  to  be  devoting  ourselves  to  making  life 
better,  truer,  happier,  in  a  small  circle.  Our  finest 
minds,  in  the  effort  to  get  broad  and  profitable  recog 
nition,  are  often  made  selfish  and  worldly." 

In  another  letter  he  told  of  the  marriage  of  Timo 
thy  Pride  and  Ann  Fernlow.  "  Little  Ann,  whom  it 
was  my  pleasant  duty  to  join  in  wedlock  with  Timo 
thy,  is  so  happy  that  I  am  happier  myself  in  think 
ing  of  it.  They  have  gone  to  live  in  the  house  with 
heart-shaped  door-lights,  at  the  branch-road,  having 
repaired  and  fitted  it  up  ;  and  a  cheery  domestic  light 
shines  out  of  those  apertures  once  more  at  night ; 
though  one  can't  see  into  the  hearts,  on  account  of 
the  innocent  white  dimitv  that  screens  them." 


360  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

A  few  other  things  that  interested  Edith  in  these 
communications  may  be  quoted. 

u  Certainties  and  uncertainties,  —  what  are  they? 
I  find  I  can't  always  tell.  Now  and  then  a  great 
despondency  assails  me,  and  I  seem  to  have  made 
a  fatal  mistake.  I  recur  to  former  thoughts  and 
aspirations,  only  to  laugh  at  them.  But  while  I  am 
still  laughing,  their  meaning  becomes  clear ;  I  see 
that  they  were  true,  and  find  myself,  before  I  know  it, 
nerved  for  the  struggle  again." 

"I  have  told  3-011  before  about  Riutyard's  confes 
sion,  and  his  sentence  to  death.  I  wish  I  could  give 
you  some  idea  of  the  extraordinary  conversations  I 
had  with  him  in  jail.  All  the  ordinary  resources  of 
schools  and  books  I  found  entirely  useless  at  first, 
and  I  had  to  depend  on  my  own  way  of  getting  at 
him.  It  was  all  the  harder,  because  I  would  not 
allow  myself  any  of  that  sickening  sentimentality 
with  which  clerg3Tmen  usually  surround  the  last 
hours  of  the  condemned.  Whatever  mercy  awraits 
them  beyond  this  life,  it  seems  to  me  irreverent  to 
make  them  ascend  the  gallows  with  hallelujahs  like 
those  a  pure-lived  mart}T  might  utter  when  dying  in 
a  noble  cause.  I  tried  to  touch  him  into  manliness 
and  penitence,  and  partly  succeeded.  Perhaps  I 
could  n't  have  done  this,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
discipline  of  my  own  recent  accusation." 

"  You  ask  about  Tlryrsa.     She  is  trying  very  hard 


CERTAINTIES  AND    UNCERTAINTIES.     361 

to  wake  to  higher  interests  than  she  has  known. 
She  studies  a  good  deal,  and  makes  a  patient  house 
keeper  ;  but  there  is  something  dark  and  unruly  in 
her  mind,  which  makes  it  difficult  for  her  to  grow 
upward.  It  is  a  part  of  that  latent  primitive  savag 
ery  of  our  nature,  which  we  see  constantly  cropping 
out  on  the  surface  of  the  race's  life  in  so  many  ways, 
and  breaking  out  in  the  most  cultivated  families. 
But  there  is  room  for  hope.  People  are  always 
ready  to  recognize  this  primitive  evil  force  ;  why 
shouldn't  we  also  count  upon  a  primitive  force  of 
good?" 

"  Ideality  evades  us  even  while  we  try  to  be  most 
ideal.  "When  we  achieve  high  results,  there  is  so 
much  imperfection  in  them  and  in  us  that  they  seem 
intangible.  If  we  stood  in  the  rainbow,  probably 
we  should  not  be  aware  of  the  fact.  Now  that  I  am 
living  here  in  daily  sight  of  Monadnoc,  which  used 
to  appeal  to  me  like  a  guide  and  helper  from  the 
horizon,  there  are  days  when  I  scarcely  feel  sure  that 
it  is  still  the  same  mountain." 

"  The  future  changes  shape  as  one  approaches  it, 
just  like  this  mountain.  When  it  is  reached,  one 
does  not  always  recognize  it.  I  often  think  of  this 
in  connection  with  the  growth  of  the  Republic,  which 
is  not  entirely  what  the  founders  hoped  for.  They 
saw  it  fair  and  clear  a  long  way  ahead,  and  drew  its 
shape  for  us  distinctty ;  but  how  distorted  and  dis 
appointing  it  is,  amid  all  its  grandeur,  when  com- 


362  ^V    THE  DISTANCE. 

pared  with  that  distant  view  of  it  which  they  re 
corded  !    The  true  Republic  is  still  far  off." 

"  Nothing,  I  am  sure,  will  ever  regenerate  society, 
purify  religion,  lift  up  this  country  of  ours  to  the 
height  of  its  noble  opportunities,  except  greater 
simplicity  and  integrity  of  life,  and  more  vigorous 
insistence  upon  principle  as  against  policy.  But  in 
timidation  and  anathema  will  not  bring  these  about. 
The  revolution  must  be  worked  by  examples  of 
honor,  generosity,  self-sacrifice,  in  countless  individ 
uals.  Here  in  my  small,  unstoried  way,  within  m}" 
limits,  I  am  determined  to  try  for  such  qualities,  and 
leave  the  reward  —  if  there  's  to  be  one  —  to  others. 
It  is  not  language,  but  lives,  that  can  revive  pure 
and  sane  religion,  or  honesty  in  government,  or  health 
in  societ}r.  What  we  need  is  not  so  much  pra}rer  as 
persons,  in  the  largest,  soundest,  holiest  sense  of  that 
word,  —  persons  through  whom  shall  be  convened 
the  clear,  strong  tones  of  truth  divine  and  human." 

They  were  peculiar  letters  for  a  young  man  to 
be  writing  to  a  3'oung  woman ;  and  it  appeared  to 
Edith's  friends  —  Ravling,  among  others  —  still  more 
peculiar  that  she  should  be  in  correspondence  with 
Burlen  after  what  had  passed.  But  she  found  a 
satisfaction  of  her  own  in  these  missives.  "Your 
letters,"  she  wrote  back,  "  have  an  undertone  of  mel 
ancholy  in  them  :  I  think  it's  because  you  face  life 
so  seriously,  and  will  not  blind  yourself  to  the  mean 
and  discouraging  things  in  it.  And  yet  your  tone  is 


CERTAINTIES  AND  UNCERTAINTIES.     363 

not  dispiriting.  I  suppose  it  is  well  to  see  the  worst 
before  hoping  for  the  best.  Every  time  I  read  your 
words  it  is  like  getting  SL  cool  breeze  from  the  sol 
emn,  grand,  health-giving  mountain." 

The  winter  had  almost  gone  when  Edith  aston 
ished  Ravling  with  a  piece  of  news.  "  What  do  you 
suppose  I'm  going  to  tell  you?"  she  began. 

"  Something  pleasant  about  yourself,  perhaps." 

"No:  about  Viola.  She's  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried." 

The  lawyer  suffered  a  slight  shock  ;  but  knew  that, 
after  all,  it  was  not  serious.  "  I  can  guess  to  whom," 
he  said.  "  It  must  be  the  Reverend  Franklin." 

"  Yes."     Edith  was  radiant  with  satisfaction. 

"That's  very  nice,"  said  her  caller,  perfunctorily. 
"I  congratulate  Mr.  Bland.  Well,  I  have  some 
news  about  m}*self,  too." 

"Of  the  same  kind?"  she  asked  smiling.  Her 
eyelids  drooped  a  little,  and  there  was  a  tinge  of 
reserve  in  her  manner,  as  befitted  an  inquiry  of  this 
nature. 

"No,  indeed,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  fashion 
of  conventional  amiability.  He  wondered  just  what 
sort  of  interest  lay  behind  her  smiling  question. 
"No;  it's  merely  that  I've  begun  trying  to  make 
myself  really  useful." 

"In  what  way?"  This  time  Edith  spoke  with 
quicker  energy. 

"  Collecting  bric-a-brac." 

"Oh!" 


364  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

"And  pictures  —  encouraging  native  art.  Don't 
you  think  I'm  improving?" 

"Not  enough,"  she  replied  frankly.  "You  ought 
to  give  up  disparaging  your  good  impulses.  It's  a 
great  mistake,  that  mocking  tone  of  }-ours." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I'm  enough  of  a  mockery  in 
myself,  without  that.  But,  really,  I  must  try  to  be 
useful  in  the  only  ways  that  are  open  to  me.  My 
aunt's  will  has  given  me  money  enough,  you  know ; 
and  I  want  to  help  along  the  artists  a  little." 

"But  j'ou  might  do  more." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  Ah,  if  I  only  had  the  oppor 
tunity  to  try  !  "  His  tone  was  sincere  enough  now. 
She  knew  —  how  could  she  help  knowing?  —  that  he 
was  thinking  of  her.  There  was  an  instant  during 
which  their  minds  dwelt  on  the  same  point  and  the 
same  memory,  though  neither  wished  just  then  to 
have  them  referred  to.  He  continued  in  a  more 
apathetic  wa}- :  ' '  But  there  is  nothing  open  to  me  ; 
and  if  I  were  to  set  up  an  aim,  the  world  would  gently 
ignore  it.  The  world  is  so  friendly  and  pleasant  to 
me  that  I  can't  make  '  a  good  square  issue '  with  it. 
I  'm  not  a  hero,  nor  a  great  lawyer,  nor  a  man  that 
must  struggle,  nor  a  merchant  or  artist :  I  'm  simply 
at  ease,  with  a  fair  share  of  cultivation.  If  I  should 
declare  to-morrow,  '  I  'm  going  to  be  great ! '  my 
friends  would  answer,  'Oh,  come,  my  boy,  have  a 
glass  of  champagne,  and  let 's  hear  about  that  some 
other  time.'  No ;  if  I  ever  occupy  a  c  position,'  it 
will  only  be  by  force  of  survival.  I  shall  be  this  or 
that  because  I  can't  help  myself.  My  misfortune  is 


CERTAINTIES  AND  UNCERTAINTIES.      365 

that  I  should  like  to  do  something  more  than  stop  a 
gap  in  society  ;  but  Nature  has  decreed  that  I  'm  to 
be  only  the  stop-gap." 

They  talked  on  for  a  time,  the  certainty  deepening 
all  the  while  with  Ravling  that  he  had  been  right, 
long  ago,  in  telling  Edith  that  she  was  his  one  aim, 
and  that  without  her  he  could  do  nothing.  It  seemed 
so  easy  to  speak  again  ;  here  they  were  together, 
alone,  with  so  little  atmospheric  space  between  them 
—  what  should  prevent  his  claiming  her  and  drawing 
her  to  his  side  forever?  But  he  did  not  speak;  he 
did  not  dare  to. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  had  left  her  and  gone  his  way 
again,  hoping  he  should  be  braver  another  time. 

Edith  stood  between  the  pale  brown  folds  of  Mad 
ras  muslin  at  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  Public 
Garden,  and  thinking  of  the  day  when  Ravling  had 
offered  himself  to  her  among  the  Marie  pines.  She 
had  wondered  then  if  she  was  making  a  mistake,  and 
she  wondered  now.  It  seemed  to  her  impossible 
that  she  could  ever  love  any  man  but  Burlen ;  all  her 
devotion  had  gone  into  the  bond  with  him ;  she  felt 
herself  consecrated  to  him,  though  they  were  never 
to  be  united  ;  and  yet  .  .  .  "  Certainties  and  uncer 
tainties —  what  are  they?"  She  caught  herself  re 
peating  those  words  of  Burlen's  writing.  Ravling 
could  offer  her,  if  she  encouraged  him,  all  that  she 
had  once  thought  would  fulfil  her  dreams, — wealth, 
manliness,  a  place  in  Boston  which  she  might  easil}7 
make  that  of  a  ''leader."  Would  it  not  be  better 
to  accept  him,  and  then?  — 


366  IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

A  mental  picture  rose  before  her :  the  mountain- 
country,  the  deep  snow,  the  straggling  houses  with 
their  meagre  life,  and  Buiien  pushing  through  the 
howling  blast  on  some  humble,  prosaic  errand  of 
mere}*  or  pastoral  business.  It  was  many  da}'s  since 
she  had  heard  from  him.  B\*  the  way,  it  had  begun 
to  snow ;  she  saw  the  park  whitening,  from  the  win 
dow.  Then,  as  if  blown  along  with  the  storm,  the 
peremptory  figure  of  a  letter-carrier  came  into  view, 
and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  house  with  a  white 
envelope- in  his  hand.  The  bell  rang ;  the  letter  came 
in  to  Edith  like  a  flake  from  the  white  shower  with 
out.  It  was  postmarked  "  Savage's  Mills,"  but 
addressed  in  a  cramped,  school-girlish  hand.  When 
Edith  opened  it  she  read  :  — 

"DEAR  FRIEND,  Miss  ARCHDALE, —  My  brother  is 
very  sick.  He  has  typhoid  fever.  The  doctor  says  he 
thinks  he  will  not  live,  and  I  want  to  let  you  know  this, 
because  you  are  his  only  friend. 

"THYRSA    BURLEN." 


THE  RAINBOW.  367 


XXX. 

THE    RAINBOW. 

"  T  TIS  only  friend  !  " 

-L  JL  ^  sharp  detonation  seemed  to  Edith  to 
split  the  air,  when  the  sense  of  Thyrsa's  few  lines 
had  entered  her  mind.  The  shock  was  followed  by 
a  ringing  silence,  amid  which  the  words  were  re 
echoed —  "His  only  friend."  "And  I  am  here, 
idling,  doing  nothing  for  him,  thinking  of  myself — • 
brooding  about  Ravling,  even  —  while  that  noble 
creature  lies  dying."  This  was  the  reproach  she 
brought  against  herself. 

When  Viola  returned  from  the  afternoon  concert 
to  which  she  had  been  listening  in  rapt  ecstasy  with 
Mr.  Bland,  Edith  met  her  as  if  preparing  to  go  out,  — 
dressed  in  a  dark  travelling  costume,  her  face  white 
and  ghostly,  looking  as  Viola  had  never  seen  it  look 
until  now.  "  Oh,  Edith,  dear  !  "  she  cried.  "  What 
has  come  over  you  ?  Are  3*011  ill  ?  " 

"No.  He!  — "  The  poor  child  was  gasping. 
She  raised  her  arm  and  pointed  vaguely  away,  as  i( 
to  indicate  some  spectral  presence  in  the  room  ;  but 
Viola's  mind  was  quick  to  leap  bej*ond  that  narrow 
bound,  and  she  saw  far  away,  whither  her  friend's 
faind  was  directed,  the  lonely  mountain  in  New 


368  IN  THE   DISTANCE. 

Hampshire.  "  He  is  dying,"  Edith  said,  almost  in- 
audibly. 

"Burlen?  How?  Are  you  sure?"  asked  Viola, 
rapidly.  ' '  But  }'ou  —  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
You  are  not  fit  to  go  out,  Edith." 

"  I  am  going  up  there  to  see  him." 

"In  this  storm?  It's  impossible.  And  alone, 
dear?" 

"Oh,  don't  speak  to  me!  don't  say  so!  I  shall 
never  see  him  again  if  I  don't  go  now.  I  don't  care 
what  people  say  —  I  don't  care  for  anything,  except 
to  go." 

"  Is  thej-e  a  train  to-night?  "  Viola  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I  shall  go  with  you.  Only  wait  for  me  to 
get  my  things." 

They  waited  for  one  other  detail:  they  clasped 
each  other  close,  and  Edith  broke  into  weeping. 
Her  friend  had  never  seen  her  shed  a  tear  before 
that ;  but  the  two  were  alike  now,  —  the  sentimental 
ist  and  the  proud,  queenly-minded  girl :  the  super 
ficial  friendship  which  they  had  hitherto  so  devoutly 
Inept  up  deepened  at  once  into  a  vital  bond  of  heart 
felt  S3rrnpathy. 

Two  graceful  feminine  figures,  fair  and  engaging 
even  when  shrouded  in  all  their  wraps,  and  inwardly 
miserable  though  they  were,  —  packed  into  the  red- 
velvet  cushions  of  a  long,  over-heated  car,  they  were 
carried  steadily  northward  by  the  train  that  burrowed 
like  a  mole  through  the  dark  of  night  and  storm ; 
past  the  weary  lights  of  deserted  stations,  and  over 


THE  RAINBOW.  369 

the  harsh  wilds  of  a  black  landscape  fast  smothering 
itself  in  white  drift.  It  was  midnight  when  they 
stopped  at  last  and  emerged  into  the  cold,  snow- 
choked  silence  of  Savage's ;  and  as  they  stood  shiv 
ering  on  the  platform,  they  could  have  believed  that 
the  whole  village  had  been  stricken  with  sudden 
death. 

Burlen  did  not  know  who  was  near  him.  Lost  in 
the  weird  labyrinths  of  fever,  he  thought  himself 
surrounded  b}^  shapes  and  scenes  of  his  troubled 
boyhood.  Forms  of  the  dead  and  faces  of  the  un 
born,  the  unimagined,  mingled  in  a  great  silent 
drama  that  arose  flickering  before  him,  insubstantial, 
exaggerated,  like  the  images  projected  from  a  lan 
tern  ;  and  sometimes  he  saw  his  own  figure  there, 
dilating  or  shrinking  in  a  dizzying  manner,  driven  to 
and  fro  by  uncontrollable  blasts.  He  pitied  the  poor 
dumb  shadow,  and  wondered  why  it  vexed  itself  with 
such  vast  yearnings  as  seemed  to  be  expressed  in  its 
unhappy  features.  Then  some  one  who  could  ex 
plain  it  all  seemed  to  be  standing  at  his  side,  and  he 
tried  to  ask  :  ' '  Who  is  it  that  is  making  such  ghastly 
sport  of  me  with  those  phantoms  ?  "  But  there  was 
no  reply,  and  he  fancied  he  heard  retreating  footsteps 
and  a  smothered  laugh.  "  God  has  forsaken  me  ! " 
he  moaned. 

People  he  had  never  seen  before  conversed  with 
him  in  unknown  languages,  but  he  understood  them  : 
the}'  gathered  into  an  audience ;  he  poured  out  elo 
quence  which,  an  instant  afterward,  he  could  not 

24 


370  IN   THE  DISTANCE. 

remember ;  and  always  in  these  strange  tongues. 
But  presently  common  human  speech  returned,  and  he 
was  conscious  that  he  had  asked  for  water,  and  knew 
that  it  was  brought  to  him, — but  only  one  spark 
ling  drop,  it  seemed,  which  was  lost  in  the  hot  whirl 
or  dead,  sullen  mist  of  heat  that  was  consuming  him. 
Presently  he  began  to  look  through  the  eddying 
phantasmagoria  that  encompassed  him,  and  saw 
flowered,  sunshiny  meadows  beyond,  and  light  groves 
of  budding  trees.  He  heard  the  bluebird  singing,  — 
a  quick,  cold  ripple  of  music  that  ceased  in  an  instant 
and  was  lost,  apparently  forever.  There  was  a  gurg 
ling  brook  in  the  fields,  that  fell  into  a  pool ;  but 
just  as  he  was  about  to  plunge  into  it  and  bathe,  he 
saw  lying  under  the  water  the  white,  placid,  glinting 
form  of  a  dead  man,  quiet  and  beautiful  as  some 
pearly  sea-shell.  "I  will  not  disturb  him,"  he 
thought,  and  went  away.  .  .  .  He  was'  in  the  slums 
searching  for  some  one  ;  there  was  course  yellow  gas 
light,  there  were  drinking  and  laughter.  .  .  .  The 
yellow  light  faded ;  the  rock}r  crown  of  Monadnoc 
lifted  him  up  into  pure  air.  But,  looking  over  the 
side,  he  saw  his  sister  clinging  there  and  about  to 
fall.  He  leaned  over ;  she  caught  hold  of  him,  and 
he  slipped.  Launclied  into  space,  he  fell  and  kept 
falling ;  for  the  earth  opened  and  soon  dissolved, 
hanging  above  him  as  a  mist.  He  was  falling  through 
the  nethermost  depths  of  the  universe,  amid  dense 
night  filled  with  white  stars  and  snow  showers.  There 
was  a  roar  of  wind  and  storm  ;  .  .  .  then  the  whole 
show  of  things  that  had  been  circling  around  him 


THE  RAINBOW.  371 

came  to  a  pause  abruptly.  He  looked  straight  for 
ward  and  saw  the  ceiling  of  his  room ;  he  turned  a 
little,  sideward,  and  faced  two  sweet,  anxious,  patient 
63-68. 

"  What  is  it?  Where  have  we  been,  Edith?"  he 
asked  feebly. 

When  he  grew  better  he  learned  that  Archdale 
had  come  to  watch  with  his  daughter,  after  Viola 
was  obliged  to  return  to  Boston ;  and  that  both  the 
father  and  the  daughter  were  assisting  Thyrsa.  There 
was  an  intimation,  a  presentiment  of  spring  in  the 
air,  —  that  nrysterious  balminess  which  seems  to  be 
charged  with  the  delicate  scent  of  wild-flowers  before 
ever  a  blossom  has  sprung  from  the  ground ;  and 
there  came  to  the  invalid  a  corresponding  sense  that 
he  should  soon  quite  recover.  The  doctor,  in  fine, 
had  been  mistaken.  Edith  forgave  the  mistake. 

Burlen's  convalescence  was  slow ;  but  his  three 
companions  watched  him  carefully,  and  there  was  no 
relapse.  Finally,  when  trie  snow  had  retreated  to  its 
last  hold  in  the  deep  woods  and  sheltered  hollows, 
he  went  out  to  walk  in  the  sunny  hours,  with  Edith. 
They  were  alone,  Archdale's  conception  of  fitness 
being  unlike  that  of  his  more  punctilious  sister. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is  !  "  said  the  j'oung  minister, 
when  they  had  reached  the  limit  of  their  walk  and 
were  about  to  turn.  "I  had  almost  forgotten  that 
the  world  could  look  so  bright.  And  it  helps  me 
so  to  have  you  here.  When "  —  he  hesitated  — 
"when  are  you  going  away?"  In  his  weakness, 


372  IN  THE   DISTANCE. 

though  he  strove  to  appear  self-possessed,  there  was 
a  touch  of  the  child  who  dreads  to  be  left  alone. 

"  I  'm  not  going  until  you  feel  that  you  don't  need 
me,"  said  Edith. 

It  was  with  a  mixture  of  sadness  and  delight  in 
his  look  that  he  answered :  "  I  shall  always  need 
you.  Would  you  be  willing  to  stay?"  he  added 
timidly.  "  Do  you  think  3-011  could  renew  our  en 
gagement  after  my  foolishness  and  conceit  in  with 
drawing  from  it?" 

Her  face,  though  she  did  not  at  once  turn  it  towards 
him,  answered  before  her  voice.  "I  have  been 
yours,"  she  said,  with  the  sweet  composure  which  had 
always  so  potently  impressed  him  in  her,  "  since  that 
day  when  I  promised  first.  And  I  don't  think  you 
were  foolish  or  conceited.  It  was  brave  to  try  that 
renunciation,  and  we  shall  understand  and  love  each 
other  all  the  better  for  it." 

"  I  imagined  myself  so  strong  —  "  he  began. 

4 'And  you  are,"  insisted  she;  "but  you  needed 
some  weakness  to  make  }*ou  complete,  and  I  can 
supply  it.  Isn't  that  it?" 

He  laughed  a  little.  "  The  case  seems  to  be  just 
the  reverse  at  present,"  he  said.  "  I  couldn't  have 
contrived  a  better  way  to  get  you  back,  if  I  had 
been  in  a  story.  But  I  know  what  would  have  hap 
pened  if  I  had  not  had  the  fever.  I  should  have 
gone  to  you,  instead  of  your  coining  to  me." 

They  were  not  married  until  June ;  and  then  the 
wedding  took  place  from  Arohclale's  old  gambrel- 


THE  RAINBOW.  373 

roofed  house  at  Marie,  much  to  the  distress  of 
several  undergraduates,  who  had  improved  the  last 
opportunity  to  fall  in  love  with  Edith  before  her 
departure  to  the  humbler  scene  of  Savage's.  Mrs. 
Savland  fulfilled  her  part  in  the  affair  with  excel- 
lent  judgment,  carefully  incorporating  with  the  cere 
mony  a  few  judicious  tears,  which  were  followed  by 
smiles  at  the  breakfast.  What  gave  Edith  and  her 
husband  a  keener  satisfaction  was  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
committee  from  Burlen's  congregation,  who  attended 
the  wedding,  and  afterwards  modestly  drew  their 
pastor  aside  to  assure  him  that  he  must  take  a  three 
months'  vacation,  during  which  they  would  provide 
for  him  as  usual. 

We  must  leave  them  at  the  beginning  of  the 
journey,  which  both  symbolizes  and  inaugurates  the 
journey  through  life.  There  is  much  in  store  for 
them,  —  much  suffering  as  well  as  pleasure.  The 
thing  which  seems  to  me  fine  about  it  is  not  the 
amount  of  enjoyment  they  are  likely  to  have,  but  the 
fact  that  here  are  two  fresh  and  genuine  hearts  going 
forth  into  the  world  with  the  hope  of  making  it  bet 
ter  and  gladder  for  a  time.  Even  in  an  age  when 
enthusiasm  is  marked  "curious"  by  the  sophisti 
cated  collector,  and  when  fiction,  to  get  itself  called 
intellectual,  ends  fashionably  in  dilettante  fatalism, 
one  may  profitably  descend  for  a  moment  to  contem 
plate  these  happ}-  3'oung  people,  setting  out  full  of 
belief  and  beneficence. 

The  goal  which  had  seemed  to  Burlen  so  remote 
a  year  before  at  the  Cleft  was  gained,  and  he  stood 


374  IN   THE   DISTANCE. 

between  two  distances,  —  one  into  which  his  past 
misfortunes  had  faded ;  another  spreading  out  as  far 
as  he  could  see  in  advance,  a  rich  summer  of  antici 
pation. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  as  they  travelled  aw«i}*, 
"how  I  thought  one  could  never  be  certain  of  any 
ideal  thing?  I've  changed  my  mind  now,  for  I'm 
touching  the  rainbow,  and  know  it." 


"A  brilliant  series."— Boston  Courier. 


Stories  by 

American  Authors 


MESSRS.  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS  have  in  hand  a 
publication  of  unusual  importance  and  interest,  in  the  volumes 
of  "  Stories  by  American  Authors,"  of  which  they  have  just 
finished  the  issue  in  ten  small  volumes. 

The  books  carry  their  sufficient  explanation  in  their  brief 
title.  They  are  collections  of  the  more  noteworthy  short 
stories  contributed  by  American  writers  during  the  last 
twenty-five  years — and  especially  during  the  last  ten — either 
to  periodicals  or  publications  now  for  some  reason  not  easily 
accessible. 

It  is  surprising  that  such  a  collection  has  not  been  at 
tempted  earlier,  in  view  of  the  extraordinarily  large  propor 
tion  of  strong  work  in  American  fiction  which  has  been  cast 
in  the  form  of  the  short  story. 

If  the  publishers  of  the  present  collection  are  right,  it  will 
not  only  show  the  remarkably  large  number  of  contemporary 
American  authors  who  have  won  general  acknowledgment 
of  their  excellence  in  this  field,  but  will  surprise  most  readers 
by  the  number  of  capital  and  striking  stories  by  less  frequent 
writers,  which  are  scattered  through  our  recent  periodical 
literature. 

In  England,  in  the  well-known  "  Tales  from  Blackwood," 
the  experiment  was  tried  of  publishing  such  stories  taken  from 
a  single  magazine  within  a  limited  time.  But  the  noticeable 
feature  of  the  present  volumes  will  be  seen  to  be  the  extent 
of  the  field  from  which  they  draw,  and  their  fully  representa 
tive  character. 


10  vol.  Cloth,  i6mo,  50  cents  each. 


ATTRACTIVE    BOOKS 

IN    PAPER     COVERS. 


GUERNDALE  :    An  Old  Story. 
By  J.  S.  OF  DALE,     i  vol.,  I2mo, CQ  cts. 

NEWPORT  :   A  Novel. 
By  GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP.     i  vol.,  i2mo,      .     .     50  cts. 

JOHN    BULL    AND    HIS    ISLAND. 
By  MAX  O'RELL.     Eleventh  thousand,     i  vol.,  i2mo,  50  cts. 

LUTHER:    A  Short   Biography. 
By  JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE,  M.A.     i  vol.,  i2mo,     .     30  cts. 

OLD  CREOLE  DAYS. 

By  GEORGE  W.  CABLE.     In  two  parts— each  complete  in 

itself — per  volume,        30  cts. 

MY    HOUSE:    An   Ideal. 
By  O.  B.  BQNCE.     i  vol.,  i6mo, 50  cts. 

RUDDER    GRANGE. 
By  FRANK  R.  STOCKTON,     i  vol.,  i2mo,       ....     60  cts. 

SOCRATES. 

A  Translation  of  the  Apology,  Crito,  and  parts  of  the 

Phaedo  of  Plato.     New  edition,     i  vol.,  I2mo,    .     50  cts. 

A    DAY    IN    ATHENS    WITH    SOCRATES. 
I  vol.,  I2mo 50  cts. 

MRS.    BURNETT'S    EARLIER    STORIES. 

LINDSEY'S  LUCK,  30  cts.  ;  PRETTY  POLLY  PEMBERTON,  40  cts.  ; 
KATHLEEN,  40  cts. ;  THKO,  30  cts. ;  Miss  CRESPIGNY,  30  cts. 
Beautifully  bound  in  ornamental  paper  covers. 


. 


#X     I 


